Gangsters in London
by Ertal77
Summary: The Holmes brothers own the city of London... Every criminal action that takes place there passes through their hands, and they will make sure that it won't change. Sergeant Watson, of the Organised Crime Department in Scotland Yard, has other plans. Manipulative!Sherlock, slash, rating for future chapters.
1. Chapter 1

**This one is dedicated to the amazing girls of the Johnlock Fanfiction group in Facebook, and to Andria, who prompted it and helped me to clean it from linguistic mistakes. Any mistake remaining is only my fault.**

**If you like it, don't hesitate in give me some feedback!**

**P.S. I've made for my own use a youtube list with 1930-1932 greatest hits to listen with this fic. If anyone is interested, here it is: youtube/ watch?v=YpGZBr-RYK8&list=PLiVajwJFCS7BD9YVyzaAhvAhy4KpFBcXL**

* * *

I stepped in the Organised Crime Department at New Scotland Yard, exactly at 9 o'clock in the morning. Inspector Lestrade was already hanging in the wall the pictures of last night activities. When he finished, he settled the pushpins in the London map. He stood aside and gazed at his work: the huge London map was dotted with colourful little points and surrounded with black and white photographs of atrocities. Each colour stood for a different kind of crime: black was for arson, blue for armed robbery, green for illegal gambling, pink for prostitution, grey for other crimes. But the three pushpins Lestrade had just placed were red: murder. I approached the wall to watch the pictures, joining my small group of colleagues, and thanked God for the fact that the photographs didn't show the red colour. I had seen too much red lately.

Lestrade coughed and we all sat down in our uncomfortable wood chairs, or stood out of the way, leaning again our desks.

"Good morning, chaps. As you can see, we have had a rough night: three murders in different parts of the city. This one" he signalled the red dot in the Whitechapel area, "look like a regular one, so the guys of Whitechapel station will sort it out. The other two, on the contrary…" he signalled the horrid photographs, "have all the marks of the Holmes brothers."

A general grunt roamed by the room. Two more crimes for the thick file. The never-ending file, as it seemed to be.

"This one in Regent Street was a security guard in an office building. The place was searched thoroughly, but they haven't found anything missing. Watson and Smith, you two will go there now; perhaps at daylight they will discover what has been robbed, or perhaps they can tell you what they think the murderers were looking for."

I nodded, frowning. What would those gangsters possibly want from an elegant office? That was new.

"The other murder is more delicate", sighed Lestrade, pointing the red dot placed in Pimlico. "A couple has been shot in their home. The man was a banker, and both came from old and wealthy families, so the press will be stalking us until we can put someone in jail for the crime. They were awakened, tied up and supposedly interrogated before being shot. The domestics heard the shot and ran to the main bedroom, but of course the damned murderers were gone. Donovan and James, you will go there and try to find any lead. Frank will join you later; we need daylight photographs."

"And when will be that 'later'?", scoffed Sally Donovan.

I rolled my eyes and avoided looking at her. Sally was the only woman in the Force with the rank of 'sergeant'; she thought she had to be tough and sarcastic all the time in order to be respected and not treated as a weak damsel. As if we could ever consider that.

"'Later', Donovan, will be when Frank wakes up, has breakfast and decides to come to work. He has been awake all night taking these photographs and revealing them, and thanks to him, we have this visual aid in front of us every morning. So please, be kind to him when he appears in your crime scene, OK? This goes for all of you, guys."

We all nodded; nobody liked the photographer very much. Frank was a good lad, but very quiet and, of course, he wasn't one of us. We all felt a little intrusion every time he came with us to take pictures of the crime scenes. But, nice or not, we needed him: where could we find another photographer with enough stomach? He wasn't photographing flowers or weddings, precisely…

After that, we all began to take our equipment and prepare to go. Only Lestrade and Muffin stayed in the Department today. The Inspector approached me when I was finishing my coffee and Smith was waiting for me at the door. Lestrade told my mate to wait for me outside, and made me sit down.

"John… I know you expected to be assigned to the double murder in Pimlico."

I shrugged, but it was true. Delicacy was not the strong point of Donovan.

"I prefer you take the Regent Street one because is less stressing, and you and me have the night shift tonight."

"Yeah, I know. Do you expect more movement tonight, then?", I asked.

He nodded, concerned. He looked around us: all the rest of the team had gone, we were alone in the office.

"And there's more. I think we have a mole."

"What?! In here? No way, it's impossible!", I exclaimed.

"That's what I thought at the beginning… But John, our last operations have been a fiasco, and all our undercovers have been discovered and murdered. How, do I wonder?"

I gulped, suddenly nervous. Those people had my back. I had to rely on them, how else was I going to do my work?

"Keep your eyes open, John…"

* * *

The day was calm, in fact. Smith and I talked with the owners of the small offices in the building where the security guard was murdered. All of them affirmed that they didn't have a clue of the ulterior motives of the killer. The office that had been searched belonged to a lawyer, specialized in wills and divorces. The lawyer said exactly the same as his neighbours, although I didn't fully believe him.

At dinner time, all the agents went home and only Lestrade and I stayed at the office. We had some hamburgers from the corner's café, and then the Inspector lay down on the sofa, beside the windows, and in less than two minutes gentle snores were filling the room. I sat down in front of my desk and made the crosswords from that morning newspaper. I finished it quickly: I had a degree in crosswords with all those night shifts! I looked with envy at my sleeping mate, but I had to be awake for six more hours, so I stood and went again to the coffee machine in the hall. I sat with my paper cup next to Molly, the receptionist: she was always up for a chat. Nice girl, Molly; a little bit too sweet and shy for my taste, but a nice girl all the same. I'd been thinking about asking her out for a while then, but at the last moment I always refrained. We had been talking and laughing for more than an hour, with the only interruption of a couple of calls, when the phone rang again. I kept the conversation low, since two officers from other departments had joined us, but the way Molly opened her eyes wildly caught my attention. She wrote the details, her hand flying over the notebook, assured the other party that an officer would be there as fast as possible, and hung up looking at me.

"John, this is for you".

I ran back to the office and woke Lestrade. He put his shoes on and hurried on my heels. Molly gave us the paper with the address and the name of the caller.

"She says there's a man inside her house: somehow they have passed through the dogs and the alarm."

We nodded. Not a common burglary, then. Definitely for our department. We were heading for the main door, Lestrade with the car keys already in his hand, when Molly shouted at our back:

"Look at the name of the caller!"

I did, as I ran, and cursed loudly.

"Last mayor's wife", I told Lestrade.

"Fuck! First the banker, and now London ex-mayor? This is escalating out of control, John. Run!"

It took us less than five minutes to get to the spot, a nice terraced house in Belgravia. Two women were sitting in the front porch step, but they stood as soon as they saw us running out of the car. I recognised one of the women from the society pages of the news: a tall ash-haired one in her fifties, now with streaks of tears in her face.

"The man is in the cellar now!", she cried out. "He told us to go out of the house if we wanted to live; I told him that I had already called the police, but he laughed at this…"

"Is there anyone else in the house?", Lestrade asked her.

"No, my husband is on a business trip, and today is the domestics' free day; only one of the maids was at home", she signalled the woman by her side.

I nodded, and Lestrade and I opened the front door and stepped in the house as silently as we could. The lights were off, but there was enough light coming from the windows. We were at a wide hall, with two arches, left and right, leading to the parlour and the dining room. An elegant staircase climbed up to the first floor. We looked each other, nodded, and went through different arches. I took the dining room one: no movements there. I released the safety lock of my gun and crossed the door that led to the kitchen. It was darker, there, because of the closed blind. I approached the window so I could raise the blind just a little; I didn't want to alert the intruder turning the lights on, but I didn't want to alert him either stumbling against a pan.

"If I was you…"

The deep smooth voice sounded mere inches from my ear. I froze, cursing in my head. The intruder leaned still closer to me; so close that I could feel his breath in the side on my neck, in my earlobe. I couldn't help to shiver.

"If I was you", repeated the voice, "I would go down to the cellar, take a look to the hidden door now opened, and then walk off here as fast as you can. Actually, you have exactly five minutes to do so."

I felt movement at my back, and I turned fast, in time to see the intruder going out by one of the dining room windows. I targeted him, my hand steady around my gun. Steel blue eyes shone in his shadowed face, and I would swear that he was grinning at me.

"Time flies, sergeant…", he said.

And in an instant, his silhouette in profile was gone. I turned the kitchen light on and ran to the cellar door. A short flight of stairs led to a wide and wet room with piles of wine boxes and some garden tools, now in disarray. A smaller door was opened in one of the walls; I had to crouch so I could take a peek inside the low room at the other side of that door, and what I saw left me open-mouthed: it was a small storage room, and what was stored there… were tenths of machine guns, ammunition and some small boxes containing grenades.

I ran upstairs again, calling Lestrade aloud. We met in the hall, as he was coming from the first floor. I pulled him from a sleeve and kept running through the main door.

"Please, madams, run away from the house! As far as you can!"

"What happens, John?", asked Lestrade, astonished.

I didn't know for sure, but I had a pretty good idea of what was coming. The women, Lestrade and I had barely arrived a hundred feet up the street when hell unchained at our back: a small explosion, with a huge explosion at its heels.

"The intruder placed an explosive", I shouted in Lestrade's direction, trying to be heard over the awful noise of the fire and the resounding echo of the explosion. "In the cellar, inside a closed storage room, there were a good amount of guns and grenades: this was the second bigger explosion."

The four of us looked to the remnants of the house, not very much indeed. Lestrade stared back to me, still shocked, the dogs barked at their burnt house, the maid was doing her best to ease her landlady, and said lady was crying out loud that it couldn't be true, that her husband was a respectable gentleman, a London mayor, and her poor house, her lovely and expensive furniture, all gone, all lost…

* * *

The next morning, Lestrade called the younger Holmes to Scotland Yard. He made him sit in an interrogation room for half an hour before entering himself; the usual procedure. Sherlock Holmes was perching in the chair, his long legs over the desk, smoking languidly and sending smoke rings to the ceiling. He didn't even look to the door when it opened. Lestrade sat in his chair, left his papers on the table and tried to enter in the man's zone of sight. Sherlock Holmes kept on looking to the ceiling and the smoke figures in the air.

Lestrade coughed and started without preamble.

"We have caught you this time, Holmes… Sergeant Watson saw you yesterday in the mayor's house, _inside_ the house, just moments before it exploded."

The man finally glanced at Lestrade, barely a moment, and resumed his enjoyable activity making smoke rings. He smirked with one side of his mouth.

"Watson, eh?", said he, with a low and deep voice that resounded in the small and almost empty room.

Lestrade bit his lip. He was waiting for the threat, of course, but he regretted having to put a Damocles sword also over John Watson's head. At least, John was single, without children, and his parents lived far from London, in a small village by the sea. The only person who can be threatened to keep John's mouth shut was his sister, and John's himself, of course. He would see to it that John wasn't alone under any circumstance, from now on.

"Can you tell me what were you doing in that house, Holmes? Any reason, besides the obvious, placing explosives?"

"I can't remember being at that house at all, Inspector…", answered Holmes, still staring at the ceiling. "In fact, I think I was playing cards until very, very late… 4 a.m., perhaps? Yes, that would do. I was playing cards in my club until 4 a.m. with… let's see… Bill Morris, Washington Comb and Tommy Wallace."

Lestrade felt rage raising from his stomach and filling his head.

"Do you have to make it so clear, that you are making it up as you talk, do you?" asked the Inspector, trying hard to not raise his voice. "Who do you think the jury will believe, a bunch of felons or an honest and reliable Scotland Yard sergeant?"

Sherlock Holmes put out his cigarette in the ashtray and looked Lestrade in the eye. The Inspector gulped; the man's stare was difficult to stand. Those cold blue eyes seemed to pierce him and nail him down in his chair. When Holmes finally talked, a chill ran through the Inspector's back.

"Did your honourable sergeant see me under plain light? I bet he didn't turn the lights on, if he was chasing a criminal, and last night the moon was barely crescent, so he hadn't much light from the street either. Had he seen me at all?, that's what the jury will wonder. What did he saw? A shadow, a silhouette… That's not enough to put the blame on a man. But, of course, it was a Mayor's house, you need a scapegoat… Who do you think the jury will say is making it up? Your sergeant, who in fact didn't see much of anything, or me?"

The cold rage was well installed in Lestrade head now. Of course. This is the Holmes brothers who were they talking about. No evidence, ever: they always came away clean from every trial. But he thought that, this time, with a witness, it could be different. A crooked smile appeared in the gangster face again, as his gaze went down from Lestrade's eyes to the rest of his body and up again.

"They don't pay you a great deal, I see… Your clothes are, at least, a year old, and your wife doesn't love you enough to keep them in a good state. And, of course, you can't afford a maid who irons your shirts… That's a pity…"

The Inspector felt violent, and still more when Sherlock Holmes leaned over the table, so close that their hands were almost touching and their heads were a mere fifteen inches from each other. Lestrade had the urge to lean back, but he felt frozen in the spot, with those ice eyes like needles fixed in his own. When the gangster spoke again, his voice sounded like a low purr, dissolving the cop's anger and turning it into confusion and a strange stomach clenching.

"I wonder what you would look like in an expensive suit… A silk shirt, light blue, would be great with your tan skin… And an Italian tie, of course… Yes, I'm picturing you and God, it would be amazing, you would look… delicious."

Lestrade felt his hands shake. He gulped and, with a considerable effort, took his eyes off Holmes and looked again to his papers, trying to keep his trembling hands under control playing with a pen.

"Are you trying to bribe me, Holmes?", said Lestrade, managing to raise an eyebrow, in what he hope was interpreted as a 'not-very-impressed' gesture.

Holmes leaned back in his chair again and lit another cigarette. The Inspector was glad of having space again.

"Oh, I wouldn't even dream of offering you money, Inspector", said the gangster in a casual voice, "but every man have their prize, don't you think? Something they need, something they want. Sometimes they aren't aware of it and they content themselves thinking they don't need anything, but of course they are wrong. They only need to be shown the thing they really wish in their darkest dreams, and in a moment they would easily kill to obtain it."

Sherlock Holmes was staring at him again with an indecipherable face, shrouded in smoke, and Lestrade looked, fascinated, how the man leaned his head backwards to exhale, and followed the movement of his pale long neck. The Inspector shook his head, gulped and said:

"You can go now, Holmes. We'll be in touch."

Holmes grinned openly.

"Of course we will."


	2. Chapter 2

I was finally sleeping when Lestrade interrogated Holmes. I didn't get any sleep that night, having to take declaration from the two women, trying to locate the ex-Major and filling in a lot of paperwork; so when my shift ended I went home and fell exhausted in my bed, too tired to worry about taking my clothes off. I woke up when the sun was already high in the sky, and I felt lazy and content to have a whole free day awaiting me.

I had a shower and went down to the café below my flat. I ordered white coffee, sausages, eggs and fried tomatoes, and I stretched my legs under the table, ready for the newspaper and a good breakfast-lunch.

And there he was, in page three: they were commenting on his last trial. The picture of the younger Holmes was above the text, grinning at the Court door, in an elegant black suit and a dark fedora. The black and white of the photograph didn't show those bright blue eyes, but his striking features were unmistakable. I couldn't help myself to pass my index finger over his high and prominent cheekbone. He looked so smug and self-confident, all elegance and wealth and wittiness. I sighed. I'm not usually pessimistic, but I reckoned that it would be almost impossible to win against the Holmes brothers.

The café door opened and closed, and a figure loomed over my table. I raised my eyes from the paper, surprised, and then I stared open mouthed to the man who was sitting in front of me. He looked to my open newspaper and chuckled when he saw his own face in the page that I had been reading. I closed the paper, feeling embarrassed without motive.

"I hope you don't mind me sitting at your table", he said, and it was the same deep rich voice as last night in my ear.

"Since you have already sat, it's a bit late for asking permission."

The waitress placed my breakfast in front of me. Holmes asked for a coffee without taking his gaze away from me. I watched him, in turn. It was the first time we were face to face; last night I had only had a glimpse of him. He was tall and slim, an elegant and graceful figure inside his expensive high-waisted jacket, buttoned up high, and close-fitting trousers. He took off his fedora (a dark grey Borsalino, I saw with envy) and ran a hand by his black curls. His fingers were long and pale, with manicured nails, and all in him talked about money and self-sufficiency. His face had prominent features and was abnormally pale, slightly alien-like. He gave me a crooked smile and his eyes shone warmly, looking green instead of light blue with daylight. I turned my attention to my food, feeling shabby and wrinkled compared to him. The waitress came with his coffee, and he thanked her with a barely audible sigh. He lit a cigarette and watched me eat. After only two mouthfuls, I gave up.

"OK, then", I told him. "What do I owe the pleasure of your visit to, Mr. Holmes?"

He smiled wider, and it looked like a proper and true smile now, instead his usual smug crooked one. He lowered his gaze toward his own hands around the cup of coffee.

"We haven't been properly introduced yet, sergeant", he said. He stretched out his hand and looked at me again. "My name is Sherlock Holmes".

I stared at his hand, then again at his eyes. Was he kidding me? With a suspicious look in my face, I shook his hand.

"Yeah, I know. John Watson, at your service."

"Doctor John Watson. Also Captain John Watson, at the 5th Northumberland Fusiliers of His Majesty, war hero. And finally Sergeant John Watson, at the Organized Crime Department of Scotland Yard."

I flinched a bit when he mentioned my rank at war. At War, I corrected myself.

"You are a complex man, John… Can I call you John? Who are you, actually, when you think of yourself, when you are alone with your thoughts? Are you the doctor, the soldier or the cop?"

He seemed slightly amused, and I felt in part annoyed, and in part violent. Obviously, he had investigated me. Why not? He had to know the enemy. I had investigated a little about him, too. But I stayed silent: I didn't want to give him more information. He was here to threat me, that I was certain. 'Let's get over this', I thought. 'Make your threat and go, you arrogant prick.' But he sipped his coffee and said:

"Where were you injured, which battle?"

"Cambrai". The name slipped though my lips almost without noticing.

"Thank you, the report didn't tell it. I have noticed that you have a limp sometimes, but not always… so you weren't injured in your leg, then."

I breathed loudly.

"Have you been following me?", I asked, angry. "Do I have to worry?"

He raised his eyebrows, looking truly surprised.

"What…? No, no! I haven't anyone after you, you don't have to worry about it! I was only… curious."

"Curious", I repeated. "I wonder why."

But, in fact, I was relieved that there wasn't any sniper watching my movements. Well, if I could trust Holmes' words.

"Why?" His eyes sparkled. "I've already told you, John… You are complex and interesting, there are lots of things I would like to know about you."

I looked around, pointing at the cafe with my head and leading his gaze to my almost empty plate.

"I'm a simple man, Mr. Holmes, with simple tastes, as you can see. Nothing that would deserve your curiosity."

I took the last bit of sausage with my fork and stood up. He did the same.

"I'm sorry, Mr. Holmes, but I have to go now. Eeeemmm… It's been a pleasure".

I put my jacket on, avoiding to look at him, searching for my wallet to pay for my breakfast and his coffee.

"Sherlock."

His voice was just inches from my ear, as last night, his breath again tickling my neck. I turned to face him. He didn't stepped back and stayed inside my personal space. I could hear my heart pounding madly.

"Excuse me?", I managed to say, with a thread of voice.

"Call me Sherlock, not Mr. Holmes, please."

He stared at me for what seemed centuries, his face serious and unreadable, and finally turned away and left with wide strides, while putting his expensive hat on.

The next day at work was a nightmare; thank God I didn't also have the night shift! Lestrade told me the interrogation outcome hadn't been very positive, and that Sherlock Holmes would be presenting some alibis. Not a surprise. Two things surprised me, though: first one, the gangster had gone to see me at the café after leaving Scotland Yard, but no threats had been said. And the second one: why? Why on Earth had that criminal wanted to point us to the illegal possessions of the ex-Major? That kept me busy all that day at the office, trying to pinpoint the connections between the ex-Major and that criminal network.

I went home crossing through the park, as always. It was a quiet and beautiful place at those hours, without children shouting or dogs barking. The darkness made it look almost as a fairy forest. I sighed. It was half past nine, the café would be already closed; I tried to remember, without success, if there was still something edible in my kitchen.

But I wasn't too distracted to not notice the dark silhouette sitting onthe bench in front of the small pond. It was _my_ bench, the one I used to sit some nights on my way home. So it was true, he was stalking me himself. I sat by his side.

"You don't seem surprised."

"I'm not", I answered. "In fact, I'm glad to see you."

He turned to me, eyes wide.

"Really?"

"I've got a question for you."

He turned again towards the pond, his face hidden by the shadows and his fedora brim.

"Alright, shot. But in return, you will allow me a question too."

"What the hell would you want to ask from me? I'm not telling anything about our operations…"

"A personal question."

I raised my eyebrows at that. But I needed to know, so I nodded. He still wasn't looking at me, but I asked him.

"Why did you told me to see what was hidden in that cellar? Was the Major working with your brother and you?"

He lit a cigarette; I couldn't take my eyes off his long and elegant fingers while he did it. He inhaled hollowing his cheeks, and then exhaled the smoke with a little bob of his Adam's apple. He turned to look at me, and I avoided his eyes, feeling slightly embarrassed. I was staring too much, I knew. Maybe I envied him for his grace and wealth.

"He didn't work with us; he had his own business. But he was starting to interfere. Now he cannot come back to London; certainly, he considers himself lucky having lost only his house."

"We have his wife in custody, but we don't believe that she knew anything… She will be set free tomorrow, I think. We expect she will go directly to her husband and, at that moment, we will catch him."

"Mmmmm… Or you could search for him in the house he has in Scotland. A small village a few miles from Glasgow."

I looked again to him, to his dark profile and the tip of his cigarette, dancing in front of him when he talked and moved his hand.

"Are you sure? How do you know he isn't already out of the country?"

"Trust me in this, John."

"OK, I'll send a message to Scotland Yard when I arrive home. Thank you."

He grinned.

"And now I believe it's my turn to ask. Why did you join the Force after the War? You are a doctor, you should had opened a private practice, or ask for a job in a hospital."

The question caught me off guard. But he had warned that it would be a personal question, so I had to answer, even if I didn't wish to be reminded of those facts.

"I had already seen too much blood in the battlefield", I said unwillingly. "I didn't want to see more."

"But you joined the police. You didn't want to save lives dirtying your hands with blood, but you are still not very far from the blood… What is it, then? A hero complex? Do you have the physical need to help other people?"

He had leaned closer to me. I felt like the first night that I heard his voice: I couldn't make his face in the shadows, but his voice and his warmth came a mere inches from me, too close to be comfortable, and I couldn't help to shudder. I leaned back into the bench, trying to gain a little bit of space. He let go a grunt of frustration and reclined his body in the back of the bench, again further but facing me. The light of a street lamp illuminated him partially, now. I could see his eyes, piercing me, searching… searching what?

"It is not about helping, I see…". 'Did he? How?', I wondered. "This is about danger: you need danger! Look at you, sitting with a famous criminal in a dark corner of a park, at night, and you are completely calm… I'm sure you wouldn't limp at all right now, would you? You don't have to answer, I know it. And I finally see where did you get injured."

"Oh, now you can see beneath my clothes?", I laughed.

The look in his eyes made me stop laughing. His gaze roamed through my body and settled in my mouth. I realized I had been looking at his mouth also, since the light had made it visible for me. I glanced down and coughed, feeling trapped.

"You have scratched your shoulder four times in the five minutes we have been sitting here, so there it is. I don't suppose you would like to show it to me?"

"Certainly not!", I snatched.

He reached for the rim of his trousers and lifted the fabric over his left leg, showing me a hint of pale skin right above his ankle

"I will show you mine!", he exclaimed. "Look here, over my ankle! A piece of shrapnel of a landmine."

I looked at it, a small rounded scar: it had been deep in its days.

"You stepped in a mine? You are lucky to be alive!"

He shook his head, deadly serious, and smiled with sadness.

"Not me. It was my servant who stepped over it. He had been with my family since before I was born. And, in an instant… he was gone. Disappeared. Only bits of bone and flesh. I was by his side, and suddenly I flew twenty feet and was covered in blood. His blood."

He looked to the pond, lost in that awful memory, and lit another cigarette.

"I'm sorry. Were you at the war, then?"

"No. My father took us to Switzerland at the very start. My brother came back after a couple of years, seeing good opportunities, business, money, power, you know, that kind of things that some people devote his life to. I only came back to London when the war was almost over. My brother needed me, and I had nothing to do in Switzerland, honestly."

He turned to look at me again, his face veiled by the smoke.

"Do you think I am a coward? Because I am not. It wasn't my decision, I was very young and my father didn't believe in useless deaths…" He stopped and gasped. "Oh, God, I'm sorry, I didn't want to sound like that."

I might have flinched a bit when I heard that, but I nodded anyway. I knew a lot about useless deaths, men that were almost kids dying because an official thought a good idea to cross a well defended bridge. Blood everywhere, blood… I didn't say anything, but I knew my face was talking by me.

"You agree with me", he said, and I nodded.

"I even had a German friend there". I smiled at the memory. "A deserter. He came with us some hundreds of miles, as a prisoner, of course, and then I let him escape: he wanted to go to Italy and begin a new life. He was clever, funny, a good guy; he spoke quite good English. After meeting him, I began to wonder how many nice guys had I killed those years."

Only silence met me. We sat there, watching the pond, until he finished his cigarette and threw it, sighing.

"I think it's time for you to go home; your tail is beginning to feel reckless."

I opened my eyes wide and searched the shadows around the pond.

"Don't worry, it's one of Lestrade's men. He's there, behind that tree over there; do you see him now?"

We waved in his direction and giggled. The man poked his head, startled, and waved back. We stood up and I flattened my clothes.

"See you soon, John."

"See you, Holmes."

"Sherlock."

"Sherlock", I repeated, feeling my cheeks warm and blushed.

He turned and we went away, in different directions.

It followed another awful day at our Department. Our current operation was a raid on an illegal boxing club: we had been working on it for months. We had the names, the address and a lot of economic details, and we had been waiting patiently for a date and an hour. Our infiltrated finally got it, and that afternoon we had to enter in a given storehouse by the river and catch the organizers and the clients who paid for the fights. But when we arrived there… nothing. At all. The storehouse was completely deserted, without any trace of terraces for the audience or a boxing ring. It had been thoroughly cleaned and vacated. The thirty cops lowered our guns and cursed, looking around in disbelief.

Lestrade was in charge of the operation, and he looked miserable; and even more after the lecture from the Chief Inspector. We were all grumpy that evening, Donovan and his mate, James, quarrelled rather loud, and I managed to insult that damn photographer of ours. I apologised, but he left mumbling something of not being required anymore that night. Lestrade sent everybody home, except Smith and me, who had the night shift. He tried to give us a comforting speech, but failed, and the guys left the office in a hell of a mood. The Inspector sent Smith to the café with our dinner orders and pointed to my desk. I sighed and sat down in front of him. What now?

"I hadn't got the time to talk with you earlier", he told me. "The Glasgow police called this afternoon: they have caught the Major!"

"Well, that's good news!", I said with relief. Thank God, something that ended well! We did need it.

"Yes, his wife didn't have time to warn him: he was in jail before we released her. Your advice was decisive, because we didn't know about that house, it's under the name of an uncle, in fact. But now we arrive to the tricky part, John. The agent that follows you says that your source is Sherlock Holmes."

I nodded, trying to keep a blank face.

"And, just after that, our operation on one of his business, a long and carefully planned operation, goes astray…"

"Oi, wait! What are you implying? I haven't said a word of our operations!"

Lestrade slammed his hand over my desk.

"John, this is the bloody Holmes brothers who we are talking about! Do you honestly believe that Sherlock Holmes would willingly give you any information if it's not in exchange of something?"

"He only asked me personal questions, stuff about the war."

The Inspector opened his eyes wide.

"This is still worse, then." He sat in front of me, looking truly concerned. "John, John, this man is not nice, is not friendly. He's trying to manipulate you. Perhaps this time he didn't ask for anything and, instead, he gave you useful information because he would profit of it all the same: the Major was selling machine guns and didn't share the benefits with the Holmes, as long as we know. So it was a win-win situation for both of you that he ended in jail. But don't think for a moment that he is acting friendly only for that. He will come back and pry a little more, and then a little more, and before you realize, you will be eating from his hand."

I felt outraged and a bit angry.

"What are you talking about? Do you thing that I'm the kind of cop that accepts bribes?"

He bit his lower lip, thinking and… a bit uncomfortable? Oh, God, what did he really want to tell me?

"No", he said finally. "You are not that kind of person. But he may offer you other things, or simply gain your trust and then use you. I have seen him do it before."

He sighed, visibly tired, and stood up, grabbing his raincoat.

"Just… be careful, alright? Very, very careful, John. Don't give him any more personal information."

"He already knows everything that can attract his curiosity", I said with a sad smile. "There's nothing else, I'm not that interesting. So I don't think I will see him again, honestly."


	3. Chapter 3

**...Yes, the rating was for this chapter.**

**Thank you very much to TheGirlWhoImagined, Kotori-Sensei, Motaku1235 and Moriah93ohio for their feedback, and of course to Mianmaru for helping me to clean this from grammar mistakes, and sometimes even to find the right word: if you find the word 'cock', it's her fault; all the remaining mistakes are only mine.**

Smith settled for a good nap on the coach and I tried to finish some paperwork. But I was tired and a bit sleepy, so in a while I gave up and closed the files. I took another file from the bottom, looking around me to check if I was really alone: only the figure of my sleeping mate; silent, thank God, not as Inspector Lestrade and his awful snoring. I placed the thick file on my desk and opened it, searching. There he was, his frozen smile crooked in his striking face, looking mockingly at me from the paper. I took a look at the other newspaper cuttings, a good few of them: Sherlock Holmes declaring in front of a jury, Sherlock Holmes in the society pages, attending parties, hosting private concerts, grinning in front of Scotland Yard. I read again some of the charges, my gaze slipping through the pages: arson, murder, robbery with intimidation, kidnapping, sale of illegal substances, ownership of illegal gambling business… I snorted, suddenly annoyed.

Lestrade was right. Of course he was right. A man like Sherlock Holmes couldn't have the slightest interest in me. I didn't fit in that exciting life of elegant parties and risk, and nobody as interesting as Sherlock Holmes had ever been attracted to me. I touched his face in the photograph with my fingers. Was it attraction, then, what I felt towards that man? It could be, yes, there was no use in denying it. I didn't have to confess it to anyone, so I could be completely honest with myself. I touched his lips in the paper, his smug smile, with the tip of my index, and I sighed with the longing of yet another thing that never would be. Then I coughed and said aloud:

"Sherlock Holmes, you have been toying with me. You can stop teasing now, the game is up. I'm going to catch you and put you in jail, I swear it."

I felt a bit tired and sad: the day had been long, and I still had to be up and alert for four hours more. I gravitated again towards the hall, where Molly and the other guys doing the night shift would be hanging around. Molly was silent and grumpy: the events of the day had had their toll on her, too. But the other cops were telling jokes and spicy stories, and soon the four of us were laughing in better mood. The phone rang a couple of times, with domestic arguments, but the third time it was from someone who had heard noises in her neighbour house, and said neighbour was at the hospital. 1 a.m. wasn't an hour in which any family member would go and fetch some clean pyjamas or check that the house was alright. Jonathan, who was doing the night shift for the Robbery Department, sighed aloud, clearly annoyed.

"…And of course it has to be on the night that my mate is ill at home, of course!", he complained.

"I will go along with you", I told him. "With the day we'd had, I doubt very much that there's anything for my department tonight. Surely, all the gangsters in London are celebrating and drinking champagne at our honour!".

"Really, mate? It would be great, thank you!"

I instructed Molly to wake Smith up if something surged; I would try to come back to the station as soon as possible, and the paperwork would be Jonathan's work, not mine.

We took the car: the house was in Shoreditch, just at the junction with the ugly part of the city. We arrived in fifteen minutes; thank God running through the streets at night was easy and fast. The house was a Victorian terraced that had seen better times. The main door looked firmly shut, with no signs of having been forced. There was a service door downstairs, however, and that one opened when we pushed it. We stepped in the house and stopped a moment to listen. Silence. We took out our guns and separated to search the house. There wasn't anyone in the basement, and in fact all the small rooms around the kitchen seemed abandoned. We went upstairs: Jonathan stayed at the main floor and I went up to the first floor.

I heard footsteps as soon as I stepped in the main bedroom. I noticed the open drawers and some papers scattered over the side table. I unlatched my gun and followed the sound of the steps. All the rooms in that floor were interconnected, running around the stairs without any corridor, so I couldn't know in which room the burglar was. The next room was a crowded dusty study, full of cabinets now opened, their contents scattered on the floor: I was sure it was there where I had heard the burglar! Surely he was looking for a hidden safe box. Not that I thought that this house could contain anything valuable, but who knows, perhaps they had some family jewels after all… But where was the burglar? I poked my head in the next room: another bedroom, this one clearly in no use, with the mattress coiled over the bed. Then I looked again, and I noticed that the window was slightly open. There! I ran to that window and opened it, sticking out my gun first, targeting in the possible direction of the burglar. My head followed and, even without streetlamps, I could see the man going down grabbing a pipeline. He was less than seven foot from the ground! Before I could give the alarm, the burglar raised his face and looked at me with wide eyes, surprise painted clearly in his features. Sherlock Holmes!

I got him! At last, at a crime scene, and within my reach! He stared at me, and suddenly jumped and ran away before I could catch him. I climbed down and started to run at his heels. I followed him across two slums courtyards; he entered one door and emerged in another alley. He jumped above a fence; I followed suit, not falling behind. In fact, in spite of his longer legs, I could feel that I was closer and closer with each stride. At the other side of the fence, a dirty yard surrounded yet another slum. I hesitated a moment: Sherlock was nowhere to be seen. But then I noticed a movement in the corner of my eye, and there he was, hidden behind some barrels and starting to run again. I took a run and jumped over him, finally catching him.

I fell over his legs and moved until I was sitting above his hips, straddling him. He struggled to escape, but I let me drop over him, pushing down with my thighs and pinning his wrists with both my hands. I felt a rush of adrenaline running through my body, and before I could think about what I was doing, my lips were over his. I kissed him hungrily, with my lips opened, searching, nipping his lower one and, after a shocked heartbeat, he kissed me back with the same hunger. He opened his mouth and his tongue reached mine, and my hands set his free and went to wander though his hair. His body was warm under me, and I wished we hadn't got so many layers of clothes between us. He was obviously thinking the same: his freed hands roamed over my chest and my arms, as if he couldn't decide where to touch, going finally for my jacket buttons. I pulled away from his mouth; I needed to watch his face, still not truly believing what was happening. His eyes were wide open, dark green this time, his sharp cheekbones flushed from the race and his breath still ragged. I caressed one cheekbone, and then my fingers went to his lips, beautifully shaped and now red and hot from my mouth. He trapped one of my fingers with his tongue, and I watched, mesmerized, as he licked it and put it inside his mouth, sucking. I took my finger out and caught his chin, tilting it to one side, so I could reach his neck. I kissed and sucked it, I licked and mouthed it, and finally bit him rather hard at the spot where his neck met his shoulder. He groaned, and I felt my member aching inside my trousers.

I sat up, leaving him a bit of moving space, and kept unbuttoning my jacket and my shirt, finishing what he had began. His hands went to his own jacket. It had a lot of very small buttons, and he grunted, annoyed. I helped him when I was finished with mine, eager to see his skin, to touch his bare body. After a few minutes, I chuckled: that was so ridiculous! He laughed, too, and forgot his bloody shirt, still half buttoned, placing his hands under my open clothes. He lifted his head to kiss my chest, and struggled to shift our positions. A red light turned on inside my brain: I pressed him firmer down with my thighs. He raised his eyebrows, but stopped struggling, and contented himself with caressing my sides and lapping my nipples. A shot of pleasure went down my spine, directly to my groin. I followed his example, my hands roaming over his chest under his clothes, and going down to kiss his mouth and neck. I could have been doing that for ages, but suddenly he started to tug at my trousers fly, grunting. He tried to push a hand inside without opening them, which was rather uncomfortable, until I helped him to unbutton it. He took my member out, and I gasped when he started to touch it with firm fingers first, and soon with all his hand around my length, pulling. I reached for his fly, groping his erection over the clothes, and he moaned and gripped my bum. I unzipped his trousers quickly and exposed his member to the air of the night, happy to reciprocate what he was doing to my own hard-on. We kept on kissing and wanking each other, and I was beginning to feel light headed, drunk of too much sensations, but overly happy to complain about it. But then Sherlock took my hand and lowered it, going behind his member and past his balls, and I opened my eyes wide when I realized what was he asking for. I looked him in the eye.

"Sherlock… Are you sure?"

He nodded, his eyes bright and his mouth red and puffed from my kisses. I took my weight off him just a moment and pulled his trousers and underwear down and out, readjusting my hips and his legs, placing them wide open with his knees bended and his feet flat on the ground. I put a finger inside that beautiful mouth again, letting him suck it until it was sodden, covered by his saliva, and then I kissed him again and placed the tip of my wet finger at his entrance. I caressed it with circling movements, and finally the first phalanx went inside, quite easily. I deepened my kiss, copying with my tongue the movements of my finger, going deeper, moving in circles, pulling out and in again. Sherlock embraced my neck with both arms, letting himself go, trying to relax, his eyes tightly closed now. I extracted my finger and spat in my hand, coating two fingers now in all the saliva I could manage. Before trying to introduce two fingers inside his orifice, I spat in my other hand and started to pump his member again. Now he was definitely relaxed, moaning against my ear and breathing hard to my neck. There went my two fingers, not so easily this time, but I did it as slowly and softly as I could, and after a little bit, they were sliding inside him, scissoring and moving to the rhythm of my pumps on his length. He was groaning quite loud now, and in that position I couldn't kiss his mouth, so I whispered softly in his ear:

"Sssssshhhh… Please, Sherlock, remember where we are, for God's sake! Be quiet!"

He bit his own arm in response, muffling his moans. I could feel his hole more open, now, my two fingers entering without much friction, even when they were already dry. Could I try now? My erection was leaking, aching to join the action. Sherlock's was leaking, too, and I would have said by his groaning level that he was close.

"Sherlock…", I whispered again. "We can stop here if you want, it's alright."

He opened his eyes, looking… upset?, betrayed?

"But I want it, John… Please!"

God, the way he looked… I was dying to be inside him. And that desperation on his face… No trace of the smug and proud gangster there, but all the grace and beauty were still at his features. I kissed his mouth, pushing him down until his head touched the floor again. I took my member in hand and spat on it, stroking my length until it was well covered in fluids. I put the head at his entrance and looked at him again: his eyes were fixed on my movements, dead serious, mouth slightly open. I took his erection and pumped it softly, caressing his slit with one finger, while I pushed myself inside with my other hand. We both looked at what I was doing, mesmerized. I pushed again, and again it was useless.

"It won't enter", he sighed, disappointed.

I was thinking exactly the same. Fuck! If we just had something oily to use… But we were at a cold and dark yard, the ground under Sherlock was surely hard and wet, and the fact that he wasn't complaining about it told me how eager he was to having this. I tried to reassure him.

"It will enter, just be patient, OK? I'll make it enter, and it will be good, very good. And, if we can't manage… well, it doesn't matter. I'm almost done only watching you, we can do other things. What we were doing before was really, really good for me…"

He bit his lip, shuddered and told me:

"But I want to do this. Try again."

'Eager and desperate', I thought, moaning. I repeated my previous actions: I spat in my hand, pumped my erection coating it in saliva, then a bit more, and a bit of saliva also in Sherlock's hole; and all of this still playing lightly with Sherlock's member, keeping it hard but far from orgasm. When I pushed inside him, this time, I managed to introduce the head of my member. I gasped, incredibly excited. Sherlock tensed a bit, but I lowered my head to kiss him and it seemed to relax him. I pulled out a little bit, not entirely, and then I pushed inside again, softly.

"Don't stop now, keep moving!", he said through gritted teeth, "It's worse when you don't move!"

I did what he said, moving slowly out and in, in and out, but still with only my head inside of him. The friction was torturing me, it felt so good, but I didn't dare to shove it fully inside. I pushed a little more of it in, and we moaned at the same time. I spat at my hand and added more fluid to the point where his body engulfed mine. Then, I placed Sherlock's legs around my waist and pushed, and I was half way inside of him now. He put his arms around my neck again, and muffled his sobs and whimpers mouthing my shoulder. I kept a slow rhythm, not wanting to hurt him, but I was close now, and I wanted to be buried deep inside him when I came. This new position made it easier, and my member seemed to fit perfectly now, thrusting and emerging in fluid motions, deeper, deeper every time, and God, it was so perfect…

Sherlock shivered again and exclaimed:

"John, please… I can't take it anymore, please come already!"

I didn't need much encouragement: I shoved into him with short and fast thrusts and suddenly I felt pleasure running through me until I lost control and my mind went blank. I tried not to shout, biting my lips, but my grunts were quite audible anyway. My hand around Sherlock's member had turned erratic, so when I manage to regain control over myself again, I gripped him hard and pumped it with purpose, kissing his shoulder and his neck (the only bits of his skin I could reach, as he was still holding my neck tight). Soon he was trembling and his hips and legs moved spastically; then he tensed and bit hard my shoulder, nailing his teeth in my flesh while he came. I caressed his member until I felt his body relaxing, and then I pulled my softened cock from him and took his arms from my neck, embracing him and trying to kiss his lips. I was surprised to find his face full of tears and his eyes still tight shut. Oh, my God! I had really hurt him! I kissed him softly, stroking his cheekbones, wiping his tears. He took my hand and placed it on his hip, sighing, and his kiss deepened.

And just then I felt something cold and metallic around my wrist, the red light in my head turning on again. I opened my eyes wide, in time to see Sherlock's eyes open and fully aware: all the foggy lust was gone now, and he was again all alert and sharp movements. Before I could see what the hell he was doing, I was handcuffed to a pipeline, at Sherlock's hand's reach, a pipeline I hadn't seen until that moment, so distracted was I. I struggled against it, trying to pin again my lover below me, but it was in vain: he had changed our positions while I embraced him and cleaned his tears, the bastard, and his body was no longer beneath mine.

He grinned, smug again, standing up and putting his trousers on.

"I'm sorry, honey, but it's not jail time for me yet…"

He finished buttoning and zipping, laughing just inches out of my reach. I cursed loudly.

"You are not seriously leaving me here, handcuffed to a bloody pipeline!"

"I haven't got any other option, believe me…". He started to climb the fence again. I was glad to see that he limped a little bit, but he overcame the fence all the same. "By the way, John…"

I grunted in response.

"If I was you, I would pull your trousers up before blowing the whistle…"

And he disappeared behind the fence. I sighed, pulled my trousers up and took my whistle from my pocket. The whistle resounded in the entire neighbourhood, so Jonathan would be there in a few moments. If only I could manage to zip me and buckle my belt one handed, I sighed, embarrassed.


	4. Chapter 4

The next day I went out of my flat as little as I could. It had been daylight when I finished to fill in my report about that night's events, and I got away by a whisker from meeting my mates arriving to the office for the morning shift and starting to make jokes about me. It would happen all the same; I didn't need to witness it, thank you very much. So I slept until past midday in my flat, I had a shower and went down to the café to buy something to eat and the newspaper. In the comfortable shadows of my sitting room, I drank my tea and munched my sausage and onion sandwich, and I finally opened the paper with a sigh, trying to avoid the face that was haunting my mind, but looking for it all the same. I was surprised to find in the third page the failed raid into the illegal boxing club: it seemed so, so long ago! I read the article, but there wasn't anything new. The journalist made fun of the Yard, of course, and suggested that Lestrade was so useless that he couldn't even solve the case of the Department mole. God. If the moods were awful last night, I didn't want to imagine how they should be today.

I kept turning pages until I found him. Society pages, again. A wedding party at Lord Wart's mansion. Incredibly elegant in his tuxedo, a cigarette in his hand as he leaned while talking to someone, oblivious to the camera. So different from the image in my mind: sweated, flushed cheeks, eyes dark with lust, his bare legs around my waist. I panted. I took my scissors and cut his picture from the paper. I looked at the paper cutting, trying to reconcile this elegant and confident man with last night. My other hand was massaging my crotch, almost without realizing.

"To hell with it!", I said aloud, surrendering.

I went back to my bed with the cutting still in my hand, and I placed it in my nightstand, standing against the alarm clock. I lay on my side, facing his black and white figure, and I almost felt his wet mouth on mine. I wanked furiously, finally shutting my eyes and letting my mind's eye bring me all the images and sensations from last night: I could feel Sherlock's hair brushing my cheek, the tender skin of his neck against my lips, his scent surrounding me, invading me, the incredibly heat and marvel of being inside him, owning his body… I came with a muffled shout: "Mine!" And in the afterglow, feeling calmer and relaxed, I remembered his laugh at parting from me, and I wondered how exactly I could even think of him being mine. I saw the paper cutting in the corner of my eye and took it again.

My father was a well-to-do doctor, not rich but respectable and earning a good living, especially before the war, but my family had never been invited to that kind of posh events. I couldn't simply imagine me there, no: Sherlock and I came from very different environments. But the other night, sitting in the dark, in the park, I felt Sherlock really near, a warm and comforting presence by my side. I would like very much to repeat that. Then an awful thought made my heart jump inside my chest: what if all of that was only some scheme of his? Perhaps last night he only wanted to distract me in order to escape, as he finally did… "Don't be so self-deprecating, John Watson", I scoffed at myself. Sherlock didn't need to go so far only to distract me. But…

Always a 'but'. There were Lestrade's words, for instance. He had warned me that Sherlock would try to win me and then what? Make me his puppet? It seemed absurd, but then the way he left me there, alone and cuffed in that yard… I knew I should be furious, but I couldn't conjure my anger to stay more than a few minutes, and the lesser memory from last night made it vanish and turn into amazement, into want. I got up with a sigh. I spent the rest of the afternoon cleaning my flat and going for a stroll to the park (no sign of any elegant gangster in it; only Lestrade's man at a reasonable distance: I had started to greet him with my hand every now and then). Back home, I had an omelette for dinner and read a novel until midnight. I wasn't in the mood for going to the pub that night, or seeing anybody. I went to bed with Lestrade's words dancing in my head. What was he trying to tell me?

I dreamt that I was a waiter at a fabulous party in a mansion. My gaze followed Sherlock everywhere. He looked oblivious to me for a while, but at one given moment I caught him grinning in my direction, and when I turned to see who he was grinning to, I was startled to find out that there was anyone else but me. I blushed and tried to hide amongst the people, offering my tray of cocktails with a nervous smile. And when I went back to the small bar to fill in the tray, my arm was pulled with violence; the tray went flying away and I lost foot and almost fell over Sherlock, who pinned me against the wall behind the bar and snogged me thoroughly until I was breathless. I felt a warm and delicious sensation in my belly; but when I opened my eyes at last, I met the angry glare of the lady who had hired me, and I thought: "Oh, no, I'm done, I've lost my job!" while I hold onto Sherlock's back tighter. I woke up feeling confused but smiling like an idiot. The sun was already up the sky, so I jumped from the bed and stopped the alarm clock before it rang.

I took a shower and shaved, with my eyes fixed in the mark left by that madman in a fedora. A small but deep bite in my right shoulder, violently purple, almost matching my bullet scar on the other shoulder. I sighed, and covered it with my shirt.

When I stepped in the Yard, I noticed that I was whistling and caressing the love bite over my clothes.

A row of applauses greeted my entrance in the Department. I felt my cheeks hot and blushing, and I manage to give my mates a tight smile and a bow with my hat. Lestrade called them to order, and we all sat, still laughing.

Smith patted my back, sitting by my side and exclaiming:

"You are my hero, man! So Holmes leaves you handcuffed in a bloody backyard and you take the chance to have a wank before someone comes to free you? That's making a good use of your time, mate!"

More general laughs. I wished the earth opened and swallowed me at that precise moment. I _knew_ it was going to happen, I knew since Jonathan came to rescue me the other night and burst out laughing when he saw my open belt and unzipped trousers. Because no, I couldn't manage to fix that. I knew he was going to tell everybody in the Yard, and I had tried to relax and accept it, but it was so embarrassing anyway…

Lestrade made silence again, and looked at me with a deep frown. He was the only one that didn't seem amused by my slip. Well, I could stand a lecture, it was the least I deserved, actually.

The morning passed between paperwork and some witnesses' interviews: the last night had been quiet, but we still had a lot of cases running. At lunch time, I took a coffee to Molly in the hall. One guy from Homicides laughed when he saw me, and made an obscene gesture, mimicking a wank. I showed him my finger and deliberately turned my back to him. Molly blushed slightly and took her coffee.

"Thank you, John, you are always very kind. Don't mind these childish guys, you know they will find soon something else that amuses them, just be patient."

"Yeah, I know…", I sighed, leaning over her desk with my coffee.

She was a nice girl, but was avoiding looking at my face. Well. I imagined that she didn't want some images into her mind. I sighed again, loudly. She sipped her coffee and, looking at her lap, tried to change the topic.

"I suppose that dealing with Sherlock Holmes is always an experience, you don't have to feel bad for his escaping. He is so clever and full of resources!"

"Yes, you don't know how many…" I mumbled looking at my shoes. But suddenly a bell rang in my mind. "Hold on… Do you know Sherlock Holmes? In person, I mean."

She blushed furiously, a pink rash covering her cheeks, ears and part of her neck.

"What! No, no, of course not!"

But she looked really alarmed, eyes wide open and dilated pupils, and she swept her hands in her skirt without noticing, obviously trying to get rid of a sudden sweat in her palms. I didn't need to be the damned Sherlock Holmes to know that she was lying. I looked around until I found one of the clerks.

"Natalie! Would you mind taking care of the reception while Molly goes out for a coffee? It will be only ten minutes as much, I promise."

"And what's the problem with the coffee she's already having?", grunted the girl.

"What, this one?", I said, swallowing it down. "It's a horrible coffee, Molly deserves better. Come on, Molly, take your coat, it's freezing outside."

I took the babbling girl by her arm and we both went out the main door. Actually, it wasn't freezing at all. The spring was near, and a shy sun was shining, giving us an impression of warm that wasn't really there, still not, but soon. I bought two cappuccinos in the stall and we went for a stroll towards St. James Park. We sat on a bench and then she finally opened her mouth.

"Alright, I know him. Happy now?"

Molly looked upset and about to cry. Feeling slightly guilty, I took her hand and patted it gently.

"How did you meet?". She looked at me, scared. I rushed to reassure her: "I won't say anything in the Yard. This is only between you and me, I promise. But I need to know. Please, Molly, tell me…"

"OK, OK…". She looked more composed now. A frown formed in her forehead as she tried to recall all the details and put them in order. "I was having lunch in this park, one day, near the pond, and he sat next to me and we start to chat… It was only small talk at first, but he was there the next day, and after a few days he came back again… Twice or thrice a week I find him already sitting in my favourite bench when I come here at lunch time."

My mouth was a tight line.

"And what do you talk about in those lunch times?" I asked, harsh.

"As I told you, at first it was only small talk, but then… soon it evolved. I didn't know at first that he was Sherlock Holmes, mind you, and when I discovered I couldn't believe that it was the same Sherlock Holmes as in the Holmes brothers."

"How many Sherlock Holmes can there be in this city?", I said with a sad smile. Fool, I was such a fool… "So he didn't tell you his name at first."

"No, only after a couple of weeks. And by then… I don't know, John, he was so sweet and patient with me. He is so clever. Funny, sometimes, but other times he seems so sad, so lonely…"

I closed my eyes, pained, turning my face to the opposite side of the park so Molly couldn't make anything of my face.

"And you started a relationship with him", I stated, trying to keep my voice even and quiet.

"No!", Molly exclaimed, "Is this what you think about me, John? I'm not of that kind of girls!"

I turned again towards her, slightly surprised. She seemed truly annoyed and hurt.

"I'm sorry, Molly. But, as you said, he is quite charismatic. A young and handsome man approaches you in the park, establishes something along a friendship with you… It's normal that you thought that something else could follow, a more intimate relationship."

She was calmer now. She looked away from me, towards the trees, and a dreamy little smile appeared in her face, blushing again slightly, but in an attractive way this time.

"Well, he is quite charming, yes. And he is always willing to listen to me. Not much people do it, listen to me, that is, and when he does… I feel so understood. Cared, even. And one day…" Her voice lowed until becoming just a whisper: "One day, two weeks ago, he kissed me goodbye. It was so gentle… Nothing like the Hollywood films, but it made my stomach fill with butterflies". She laughed softly. Then she covered her mouth with her hand and looked at me again with scary eyes. "God, sorry! I didn't think of saying that! What would you think of me now!"

"It's alright, Molly, don't… fret!", I reassured her. I put my arm around her shoulders and she started to cry.

"I'm so confused, John… If anybody from the Yard found out, they will fire me, and I need the job… They will think I am the mole, and I really don't know if I am, I can't remember if I have actually told him any detail that I shouldn't have".

"What about the illegal boxing club? Did you tell him?"

She shook her face, wiping her tears with a handkerchief.

"No, I didn't know any detail about that. Perhaps I told him that there was an operation drawing up, but anything concrete. I'm sure of that. Do you believe me, John?"

She was looking at me with her eyes still full of tears and trembling lips. I squeezed her shoulder and sighed.

"Of course, Molly. Come on, we must go back to the office. Are you alright?"

She nodded and blew her nose, and we returned to the Scotland Yard building, where she ran towards the nearest bathroom to fix her makeup before someone saw her in that state, and I, for my part, went to find Smith and made up an excuse for leaving the building on my own: something about checking a rumour, so I wasn't really lying.

2 p.m. Where should an elegant bastard be at that hour? I presumed at his club. In this case, it was properly HIS club, given that Sherlock owned one. It was at Leicester Square, quite near, and I started to walk fast, needing to calm down a bit before confronting Sherlock. Smith had believed my feeble excuse, of course, because I was John Watson the Reliable, the Honest. All wrong: I was the Jest, the Fool, someone so pathetic, so naïve, so lonely, that anybody could make fun of him. When I arrived in front of the club's façade, a good twenty minutes later, I was still fuming. The building was a pompous five-story white house, with a plaque that read "The Empire" near a door flanked by two Corinthian columns and a huge porter in uniform. It looked like a proper gentlemen's club, but Lestrade and I knew what kind of "gentlemen" the clientele was made up… I had even been inside, once, during a fruitless raid.

I stopped in front of the massive lump of the porter, who barred my pass without any ceremony.

"Sorry, sir, the club is only for members."

I cleared my throat and tried to look confident.

"Can you tell Mister Sherlock Holmes that John Watson wants to talk with him?"

He blinked at hearing Sherlock's name and nodded an "Of course, sir", disappearing behind the door. Said door opened violently two minutes later with a dark curly head and two bright blue eyes appearing right in front of me.

"John! What a delightful surprise!"

Sherlock's tone was light-hearted and casual, as if he was greeting a long time not very close friend. My annoyance had to be clearly written in my features by now, and I didn't make any effort to disguise it: I felt completely pissed off and all I wanted to do was shout at him. But Sherlock grabbed my arm, still smiling broadly, and dragged me along the sidewalk, moving away from the club and the porter (who was still staring at us with his best poker face).

"I was going to send you a message, you know!" Sherlock kept on saying, still dragging me by my arm. "I'm glad you went ahead, let's go for a stroll, we have a lot to catch up." We were at least twenty meters from the club now, Sherlock with his wide strides and me doing my best to not getting left behind. Then he brought his lips closer to my ear and changed his tone completely: "I was really looking forward to see you again, but honestly, John, what were you thinking? Coming to my club? Have you got any idea of what my men would think about me if they discover I am a… a _sodomite_?". He almost spat the last word, and I felt completely embarrassed.

"I didn't think of that", I mumbled.

"Of course you didn't. But it doesn't matter now, we can take a cab and go to my flat, I have a place here in the centre…"

He was talking so fast it was a miracle his tongue didn't twist. His actions were fast, too: he was already walking towards the road, his eyes roaming the moving cars in search of a cab. It was my turn to grab his arm and stop him.

"Hold on", I said, "that's not why I am here".

At that, he looked at me and raised one eyebrow, forgetting the cab.

"No? Why, then?"

"Deduce it yourself. It's your specialty, isn't it?"

"I've already done it. Would you please voice it, so I can check if I am right?"

I sighed, Sherlock was impossible! I started to walk again, and he followed suit.

"Look", I started, "I want you to leave Molly Hooper alone".

He raised his eyebrows again.

"Molly Hooper? Of course, John. If you wish so. But why would it upset you if I meet from time to time with Miss Hooper?"

"Because you are taking advantage of her, you are playing with us like a puppeteer, and it's rather sick!", I finally exploded. "You can't use people like that, especially an innocent and kind girl like Molly."

He glared at me with a poker face.

"I wasn't aware of your interest in Miss Hooper. I beg you pardon, John".

What was he talking about now?

"Wait, Sherlock. I'm not interested in Molly… Not that way, OK? But she is a nice girl, and she will lose her job if my mates find out she's talking to you".

He looked visibly more relaxed. We were still walking, at random, and he looked to the street. I studied his face. There was more than the new found tranquillity there… What was that? Relief, I would say. Relief, why? I have always been good reading people, first as a doctor and then as a policeman, but Sherlock was hard to read, he always seemed to act, as though he was only playing a role. Perhaps I was only projecting my own thoughts and emotions on him, though.

We walked in silence for some minutes, and then he stopped at a corner and asked me:

"What about what I said before? Do you want to come to my flat?"

His tone was… tentative, as if he was insecure. That was so adorable that I found myself drooling over the chance of repeating what we did the other night. I realized I was staring at him in silence, how embarrassing!

"Oh, come on, there's no need of feeling shy precisely now, don't you think?", he exclaimed. "Besides, I have seen how you look at me, now it's a bit late to pretend otherwise".

He smiled widely and stopped a cab. Any doubts that I could have had (I was still on the clock; he was a criminal; he was dangerous; he was dangerously attractive), vanished when I saw him jump into the car and pat the seat by his side, his insane bright eyes piercing me. As soon as he whispered "221B Baker Street" to the cab driver and closed the curtain that separated him from us, Sherlock straddled my legs and started to kiss me. Before closing my eyes to fully enjoy the delightful sensations, I looked behind us, only to see, standing open-mouthed in the street, Lestrade's man staring at us.


	5. Chapter 5

**This chapter has been really difficult to write; in fact it's the scene that had to finish chapter 4 and got me delayed. Now betaed by possessmemore, lots of kudos and thank you very much for your efforts! All the remaining mistakes are only mine.**

**And I promise the next chapters will be happier and will include more lovely and healthy sex :D**

* * *

We arrived to his flat, a narrow terraced house, and he pulled me from the cab and into the black door, grabbing my hand without paying any attention to the shocked looks from the passer-byes. He kissed me again inside the small hall, tugging at my hair with hungry hands. I noticed some movement to my right, a door starting to open, but Sherlock was faster and closed it again in the face of whoever was behind the door. I giggled and shook my head.

"Sherlock!" I tried to scold him, half serious, half joking.

"Oh, shut up, the landlady is used to my manners", he said, and pulled me by my wrist again, running upstairs with me as a tail.

He opened the door to a medium sized parlour, but it was so crammed with furniture and… _stuff_, that it felt small but strangely comfortable. He let me go and poured two Sherries from a cupboard between the windows, and I let my eyes wander by that bizarre room. I didn't expect him living in a place like that, honestly. I mean, the flat was in a nice part of the city, but not too centric, and although the furniture was elegant and of a good quality, I couldn't see any luxuries; nothing that an average upper-class family couldn't afford. But in all that clutter (God, was _that_ a real human skull on the mantelpiece?!), covering every surface in that parlour, I could really see Sherlock. There were yellowing newspapers piling on a chair, a beautiful violin lying on the floor, in a corner, two fine tea sets on different tables, a great deal of chemical equipment and lab flasks in a desk by the fireplace, and books, books, news clippings and more books everywhere. He gave me my glass and indicated the sofa; I put aside a silk dressing gown (Sherlock's? Hmmm…) and sat down. He did the same and sipped his drink, loosening his tie with his free hand, his eyes fixed on mine with a mischievous smirk. I drank half a glass in a single gulp and left the rest on the coffee table, too anxious for such niceties.

I ran my hand up his thigh, stopping just below his groin; he leaned towards me to kiss me again, placing his glass blindly on the table. It tipped over and the remaining amber liquid started to spread over Sherlock's books and papers; he cursed and took them away, setting them on the floor, while I giggled again. I took the lapels of his elegant jacket and pulled him into a kiss. This time, without further interruptions, I could savour his mouth, now Sherry flavoured, at my full pleasure. I nibbled his bottom lip and caressed his gums with my tongue. He let go a little surprised moan, and his hands got lost beneath my untucked shirt. When Sherlock emerged to breath, I felt lightheaded and glad to be sitting down, because my knees had suddenly turned into jelly. He went to bite my earlobe, caressing it lightly with his teeth, and then he whispered, breathing in my ear:

"I am well prepared this time… I've got something we can use. It's supposed to be for medical examinations, but I'm sure it will work perfectly."

"Hmmmmmm… That's great", I smiled, enjoying his rumbling voice with my eyes closed.

"Would you like to try it yourself? We could turn tables this time…"

Sherlock's pained face came to my mind: tightly closed eyes, tears on his cheeks and hands grabbing me desperately. The other night hadn't really been a pleasant experience for him, but, God save me, I'm not so brave. I was suddenly afraid. What if Sherlock insisted in this being my turn? Would he get upset and angry if I refused?

"I'd rather not, Sherlock", I said at last. "Do you mind?"

He chuckled and shook his head. Relieved, I assured him:

"Perhaps next time, OK?". He attacked my neck again, but now I felt horribly selfish. "I haven't asked you, I'm so sorry… Are you alright? Did it bleed?"

He emerged and looked me in the eye, slightly shocked.

"Bleed? Of course not! You were very careful. I was sore the next day, but now it's perfectly alright. I'm ready to do it again."

I smiled.

"But perhaps next time…", he winked.

I gulped. But he kissed me again, and then almost everything was perfect again. Almost. There was something still there, something that I couldn't ignore that easy. I kept caressing his back, distracted, while he unbuttoned my shirt and ran his hands over my nipples. I took his hands between mine before things turned still warmer.

"Sherlock", I said. He finally gave up and looked again to my eyes, annoyed. "I need to know something. I know that Molly didn't tell you anything about the boxing club operation, because she didn't know anything, in fact. Then, who? Who has been telling you confidential stuff of my department?"

Sherlock let go of my hands with an angry shake and stood up, moving away from me.

"Do you really want to talk about it right now?"

"Yes, Sherlock", I said. "I'm sorry, but I need to know."

He poured another sherry into his glass, and lighted a cigarette, his face in a crooked smirk while looking at a given point in the air in front of him. I wished he would turn to me again.

"Of course", he whispered so softly that I thought, for a moment, if I had imagined he had started to talk. "John Watson, the loyal and rightful bobby. Why would you be here, if not to ask for information? Way more effective than asking me to go to Scotland Yard for a formal interrogation, isn't it?"

I sighed. I didn't expect Sherlock… sulking, for a better word.

"I told you in the street, Sherlock… I told you I was there to ask you about this, and to ensure that you leave Molly alone before she gets into problems."

He finally turned, but his glare was completely icy. I tried to amend it a little bit.

"But it doesn't mean I didn't want to come here and… be with you. You know how much I want it, right?"

His eyes became slightly warmer. But I could tell there was still something between us, like a wall made of glass that I wasn't able to see even though I could sense it. I was tempted to raise my hands and look for it physically, I could almost touch it. He let himself drop in an armchair by the window, with his glass carelessly in one hand, almost touching the floor, and all his concentration set in smoking. His delicate features moved with the inhaling and exhaling, tensing, loosening his jaw and cheekbones, his eyebrows, even the nerves in his neck moving tautly every time the smoke appeared through his lips. I watched him, hypnotized, waiting for him to talk or make me leave his flat. When he finally spoke, he did it in a voice so low and deep, shrouded by smoke, that I had to stand up and go some steps closer to him to hear what he was saying.

"I had to run into the kindest hearted policeman in London… If you would know, John, if you would know how the others' minds work… Then perhaps you wouldn't be so fond of your dear Department… but then perhaps you would be different from the man you are now."

I felt rather insulted.

"For your information", I spat, "I'm not so innocent, you know?"

The bloody bastard actually _snorted_.

"Come on, John, you really think that you are working surrounded by honest people? Incorruptible policemen?"

I gulped again, uncomfortable.

"Most of them, yes". But, alright, I felt a bit silly at that moment.

He crashed the remains of his cigarette in a silver ashtray, with anger.

"Wake up, John! This is London, our dear corrupted London, we are in the XX century, we have already endured a war, people are just happy to be alive, they are all still celebrating that they survived; no one has time to be honourable anymore! No one but you, it seems". He looked at me, agitated, and turned away again towards the window. I noticed that he didn't seem able to stay quiet for more than ten seconds: his body was constantly moving, nervous, tense. He started to pace across the small room, avoiding my eyes. "I have an account of all the people in the Yard that accept money from us, John, and I won't give you names, but they are a lot. And then there's some of them that can be extracted information in exchange of… other things. Favours. This is my job, John, my speciality: finding out what every person wants, reading their wishes in the way they dress, the way they move and the way they talk. And I am good at it, I am the best! I can always read the darkest dream in them, their breaking point, the single thing they have to be offered to sell their loyalty."

My turn to tense up. I felt my teeth grinding.

"Like Molly, do you mean?" And I thought, 'like me', but I didn't say it aloud.

"Yes, like Molly: she only needed a bit of attention, someone who seems to care and listen to her. Other times it is the odd favour, or…". He stopped in his tracks. Still avoiding my eye. But I saw, yes, I think I saw a sudden blush in his cheeks. A light turned on in my head, and that was always bad news.

"You wanted information from me, then. Very clever. Did you read that I was starving for attention, also? Did you?"

I felt the anger rising inside my stomach, filling my chest with every rapid intake of air. Fool, I was a fool, I've always been and my luck wasn't going to change.

"It's not like that…" His words were almost lost behind the red veil that suddenly covered all my reality. "I didn't ask you anything, after all".

"You have been playing this game, offering yourself as a common slut!" I spat. Sherlock looked as if I had just slapped his face… exactly what I wished to do in that very moment, so it was right. "Who else did you offer your… services?"

He blushed again, very clearly this time, and then turned his back on me and leaned into the mantelpiece.

"I knew you were poorly observant, but I thought even you would notice that the other night was my first time", he said though gritted teeth.

I refused to feel moved; the red veil was too thick to think clearly.

"But not the first time you have used your charms to corrupt perfectly honest cops, I'm sure. Who else is there? Someone in my Department. Is it Frank, the photographer? Sally Donovan, perhaps?"

He grunted.

"Those two are easy to buy with simple money."

I closed my eyes, upset. Suddenly, I opened them, with the exact words that were hidden in my mind. I knew.

"God save me. Lestrade, it's Lestrade."

Sherlock kept on looking to the fireplace, but his shoulders tightened. I strode towards him and grabbed his arm; he didn't put any resistance.

"OK. OK", I mumbled. I pulled him to the sofa and I sat down there, in front of him. I could almost make his face out behind all that red in my eyes. "Show me. Show me your talent, show me what you did to Inspector Lestrade. I bet you are very good at it".

Hesitant, he dropped into his knees and came nearer. I closed my eyes. My head ached, that level of rage always makes my head hurt. I felt his long and delicate fingers in my crotch, opening my trousers and taking my soft member out. At first, he caressed it with soft touches, almost like a feather, but after a moment I felt a wet licking on the underside. I shuddered.

I opened my eyes. Sherlock had his eyes settled on mine, still uncertain, but his mouth looked lovely, kissing and lapping both sides of my growing erection. He seemed relieved to see me apparently enjoying it, and closed his eyes. His hand on my base tightened, and his mouth opened and swallowed me down almost completely. I had to repress a moan. The feeling of his tongue was fantastic, as he was displaying all that nerve of his in multiple caresses to my member. He started to bob his head, up and down, with his eyes still closed, and I felt my eyes prickling.

The red veil was lifting from my eyes, leaving me less angry but considerably more hurt. Why was it, that I still was able to fall for this man's attentions? A total stranger? A criminal, for God's sake! And what was I thinking? That I was special? Oh, yes, of course. A simple cop, a former soldier, a former doctor. Exactly the exciting man that could attract someone intelligent, handsome and elegant as this man. This amoral man that hadn't got a clue about honesty, that was doing, oh god, incredible things to my balls, and I felt them so full that they might explode in any given moment.

I looked at him again, with a knot in my throat, suppressing a sob. He worked my length with one hand, hard and fast now, his other hand playing with my balls, and meanwhile he was sucking the head in earnest. My orgasm was approaching. I put my hands on his head and stroked his silky hair; he hummed, seemingly happy, and I gave up and felt the first tear running down my cheek. Thank God he still had his eyes closed. I let the tears run free, silent, and I only moaned when I blissfully came into Sherlock's mouth. I wiped my face as fast as I could, knowing that his gaze would pierce me in a moment. He looked oblivious and content while he stroked my softening erection with his tongue, cleaning it, but then he looked at me again and his face went from "I'm blissful, and now it's my turn!" to "what the fuck is happing here?".

I stood up, zipped my trousers and buckled my belt, walking backwards until I found the door, with my gaze fixed in the confused form of Sherlock, still kneeling in front of the sofa.

"I don't want to see you again, Sherlock". My voice was calm and steady, not at all as I felt. "Ever again. Stop stalking me."

And with that, I turned and crossed the door. I ran downstairs, and any sound at all came from Sherlock's flat. I pictured still kneeled on the floor, stunned. "I'm dead", I thought, "I'm a dead man walking."


	6. Chapter 6

**As I promised, things get better between our boys! Lots of kudos to Possessmemore for her excellent work as a beta and her patience. I hope you like this chapter! And remember reviews make my day ;)**

* * *

I took the underground on my way back to Scotland Yard. I didn't feel angry anymore, only sad and as used as a pawnbroker ticket. When I stepped in the Yard, Smith was nowhere to be seen, and Molly told me he had gone to pay some visits in order to check alibis. I felt a bit guilty for leaving him all the work, but in fact he didn't need me for that. I thought of making it up a bit doing overdue paperwork (Smith would really appreciate that), but as soon as I put my foot in the Department, Lestrade saw me and gestured for me to come nearer. The three or four cops still lingering in the Department motioned towards the door. Donovan shot me a questioning look, but she followed the rest of them and left Lestrade and me alone in the office.

I took a chair in front of the Inspector and sat down, trying to look calm. Lestrade rubbed his eyes, looking tired, still more than usually. When he talked, his voice had new wrinkles in it.

"I warned you, John. Why didn't you listen to me?"

I sat up, tightly.

"I'm afraid you are not the most suitable person to tell me off", I answered.

His jaw tensed, and there was a warning light in his eyes.

"What has he told you?"

"Some things. Nothing about you, but I guessed it. You told me, in fact, the other day, but I was too absent-minded to notice until today."

"Look", he sighed, "it was a mistake. He came back the day after I interrogated him and… I still don't know how it happened, I feel rather ashamed of letting him gain control over me that way: This is why I warned you, John! I'm not one for letting lust and… primeval feelings take me over."

"And you gave him information about the boxing club?", I asked, incensed.

"No, I didn't. But after I eliminated all the possibilities… I think… perhaps he searched my table while he was here."

"Did you leave him _alone_ with our papers?", I nearly shouted.

"I had a phone call! It was only seconds, and I was at the door, he couldn't take anything from the office. But now I bet he knew where to look. He sure had all the information before, except the last bit. I was a fool, John, I know, and it won't happen again."

"He hasn't extracted any information from me, Greg. _Anything_."

He nodded, but avoided my eyes. I could guess where this conversation was leading.

"You are suspending me anyway… for letting lust and… primeval feelings, you said? take me over."

Lestrade sighed again, stood up and handed me a piece of paper.

"No. I'm suspending you because you were so stupid to do it in front of another cop. Internal Affairs will investigate you, but I promise I'll have your back. I still don't know how, but I will do it. Sodomy is a small charge, in fact; I'm sure they will let it pass. We only have to convince them that you only indulged in that inappropriate behaviour because you were drugged by him. Rest for a week, avoid Holmes, and all this mess will be solved, John. But do it, listen to me now! I need you, don't let him rotten you or you will be out of the Yard in less time you need to say "rotten apple"!"

I read the paper. I was suspended for a week. Great. The final brooch to a fantastic day.

"And what happens to you, Greg?" I asked angrily. "And to Donovan, Frank? All the others who had accepted money or favours from the Holmes brothers?"

He fisted his hands and his lips turned a thin white line.

"We don't have any evidence against them. I will watch them closely, I promise, but it's all that can be done right now."

"And you? Your mistake cost us the whole operation, Lestrade!"

The Detective opened his eyes wide and put his hand in my arm; I was making too much noise and the walls could have ears.

"I am still your boss, John", he said quietly, near my ear. "Nobody saw me, and you won't talk. Because you won't, I know."

He knew me well, of course. I shook his hand off and stormed out of the building. I didn't realize I was limping until I found myself in the street.

* * *

I remember very few of that night, or of the next night, in fact: I went to a tavern I had never been before and then I proceeded to get completely plastered. I slept most of the next day, lying dressed and with my shoes on and, when I woke up, I went back to drink a bit more. OK, a lot more.

The third morning, I woke up with the sun high on the sky (I had forgotten to close the blinds, so the light went right to my aching head), and decided I wasn't going to spend my week of suspension being drunk. There were questions, and feelings that I had to confront, ponder and mourn if necessary.

* * *

I began my morning rituals, slowed down by a head that felt as if I was holding an anvil on top of it. I accepted the right punishment to my fool behaviour and went on with a warm shower, a tea and a trip to the grocer's, as my kitchen cabinets didn't have anything edible. My leg ached, my stomach was funny, and I felt my heart crumple as soon as Sherlock's hurt eyes came to my mind. And now that I was sober again, that happened every thirty seconds, more or less. I came home with groceries, the Daily Mail and a bottle of Black and White whisky (that I intended to drink that night if the situation turned unbearable). I warmed up a tinned soup and sat down to read the news.

A short article on page 17 caught my attention: there had been a break in, in the same office building at Regent Street where the security guard was murdered a week ago. Some furniture broken, no evidence of robbery until now, and a witness saying the intruder was a man in his thirties, tall, dark hair, long dark coat.

"Bugger!"

Why would Sherlock want to enter that office again? What was hidden between those papers? It was a lawyer office, the variables were high. And it wasn't clear that the intruder was Sherlock, that description could suit a lot of men. I finished my soup in a hurry and grabbed my coat before even give it a second thought.

* * *

I arrived to the building just before dusk; and it was a lucky coincidence, because the day porter was preparing to leave while he talked with the night porter, who was due to begin his shift some minutes later. I showed them my Scotland Yard badge (thank God Lestrade hadn't felt the necessity to take it from me; it was only a week's suspension, after all).

"You have read my mind", said the night porter, a bald tall man in his sixties. "I was thinking in sending a message to the Met and boum!, you are here!"

"Are there any news, then?" I asked with a little smile. "Has the lawyer found out what's missing?"

"Nothing of the sort, no… Not that I know. But my mate here, Alfred, who has the day shift, was telling me…"

"I was saying", interrupted the younger porter, Alfred, "that I saw the burglar, too! I sleep in a little room up here, in the main floor, when I don't want to go home, and last night I couldn't sleep well. So I went to the window to have a smoke. I still hadn't lighted my fag when I saw that man running out the door! Do you see my window? It's that one."

The window he was pointing at was barely three foot upon the main door: the little room where the porter slept seemed to be a utility room, located up the first flight of stairs and directly on top of the porter's lodge.

"Did he see you?", I asked him.

"No: of that I am sure! I was still inside the window, mind you, and when I poked my head out he was running and looking back to the door. Then he turned away again and kept running until he disappeared behind that corner."

"Alright. Did you manage to see his face?"

"Oh, yes, sir, the streetlamp was lighted; I could see him very well!"

I took Sherlock's cutting from the other day's paper from my wallet and show it to them.

The night porter shouted:

"This is the man the other cops showed me! I've already told them that I can't tell for sure, I couldn't see him very close."

"But I could!", grinned the day porter. "This wasn't the man."

I sighed, relieved.

"Are you sure?"

"Yes, the man I saw had black eyes and the nose was broader. The lips were thinner, too. The hair was quite the same, and the clothes, yes. But it wasn't this man".

"Do you know who this man is?", I asked, still suspicious".

"Nah. It looks like a rich bastard, one of those lilies that drive expensive cars and go to parties everyday, and always have a debutant at their arm."

"More or less. Thank you, sir, you have been most useful. I'll write a statement right now, and give it to you to sign, if you agree".

I sat down in the porter's lodge and wrote the statement. Alfred signed it and went finally home. I sent a boy to the Yard with the statement and a note for Lestrade, saying:

"_I was bored and miss the job. Sure you can fake the date or make one of the other boys sign this. See you!_

_ John W._"

I chuckled imagining Lestrade's irate face when he read the note: the man was not the most attached to rules and norms, but he would hate forging reports.

I walked home with a little crooked smile in my face. I was still limping, but somehow I felt better. And I needed the walk to clear my head.

Sherlock hadn't come back to the lawyer's office. If he had gone there the first time, we had no evidence about that. But someone had wanted to make the police believe that Sherlock was there last night. Two witnesses, even with one of them truly unnoticed? A bit clumsy, too clumsy to not be evidently planned. The clothes, the coat, the hair… all of them looked like Sherlock, in the distance, in the dark. Alright. But why?

And the first time? Was it him, then? The first time only the night guard had seen him. And he resulted dead. Sherlock, or whoever broke in the building the first time, murdered the guard. Following Lestrade's train of thought, if Sherlock broke in last night he also was the one who broke into the same office one week ago, _ergo_, Sherlock murdered the guard. He could be charged for that.

But the relevant question was: Why did it matter to me if Sherlock was there last night or not, if he was a murderer or not? As Lestrade had pointed out, it had only been "lust and primeval feelings", nothing else. Not for him, that's for sure. And for me? What was it? And, still more important, was someone following me? I was almost sure that the answer was yes: my instinct, trained in the army and in the streets of London, told me so. And this time it wasn't a cop. Sherlock must have had someone tailing me. My heartbeat sped up, pounding in my chest madly. Well, I knew this was going to happen. One can't humiliate one of the crime's bosses (his eyes, his confused look when I left him kneeling there, as if he really didn't understand the situation), and go away without a bullet decorating his forehead, or without a new pair of shoes, made of nice cement, and a bath in the Thames. I put all my old tricks to good use in the next streets, and tried a few new ones, but when I arrived home the tail had disappeared. I was so high on adrenaline that it took me some minutes more noticing that my limp had disappeared, too.

I searched the stairs and my flat, but it all seemed untouched and empty of foreign presences. Good.

* * *

That night I avoided the whisky and went to bed with my service pistol under the pillow. But I wasn't physically tired, and sleep avoided me. I fidgeted and finally l lay on my side, watching the shadows of the trees through the window. I still couldn't understand how I had managed to get into troubles because of… a man. Until some days ago, I didn't know that I had that in me. I've never been that attracted to a man before, not to mention finding myself having feelings for one. But, in fact, after Helen, I didn't think I would feel anything at all for anyone. I wasn't going to think of Helen now, after all those years, was I? But thinking of Sherlock wasn't less painful. I still could feel his lips on mine, his arms around me, his warmth. Perhaps it was only that, what I was painfully missing now, only that, a warm body holding me, kissing me. But I would never find out, now, and that knowledge was killing me.

I moved in my bed again, uncomfortable, trying to find a position that allowed me to relax, at least. After an hour of that, according to my alarm clock, I heard a movement in my flat. I instantly tensed and grabbed my pistol. The movement approached my bedroom's door: it wasn't the sound of steps, but a soft movement of air where a body was crossing the flat; almost imperceptible, unless you were trained to sense it. I didn't move, pretending to sleep, but my body was taut in anticipation. As soon as I felt the presence had entered my room, I sat up and aimed my pistol at the shape in the door.

"John!" cried out the stranger.

I almost pulled the trigger in my shock.

"Sherlock! What the hell…?"

He ran the remaining distance to my bed, and crawled over it until he could drape himself on top of me. I let the pistol drop, astonished.

"It's you, John… It has to be you and only you", Sherlock whispered into my skin, while he kissed and rubbed his cheek against my neck and my jaw. "There will never be anyone else, I promise, John, you have to believe me. I'm so sorry! There has never been anyone else, not like you…"

Without thinking, I took his face with both hands and pulled him closer until our lips touched. His mouth was soft and pliable, opening to allow my tongue and my teeth to play inside him without resistance. Moments ago I was missing exactly this, and now Sherlock was offering himself to me, as a peace offering.

"I'm sorry, John…", he kept on whispering, his breath hot on my lips.

"I know, I know". I tried to separate my body from his and clear my head, but when I did I found myself staring at Sherlock's eyes, and he seemed so hurt and desperate… At last, I only managed to mumble: "We must talk, OK? You have to explain me an awful lot of things… But not now. God, how I've missed you! I thought…"

Sherlock raised his head from my shoulder, where he had rested it, and gave me a questioning look.

"I thought I would never see you again", I finished.

"That's what you asked from me", he said, bitterly.

"But now you are here, and I was wrong", I told him. And I kissed him again: I didn't want to talk about it in that moment. The skeleton in the closet could wait for a while.

I ran my hands over his chest, covered by layers and layers of wool and silk. He hastened to take his coat off his shoulders and let it drop to the floor, but I stopped him afterwards. I took his hands in mine and kissed his knuckles, my eyes locked on his pale startled gaze. He was still kneeling on my bed, and I was still sitting up inside it. I let my hands ran over his shoulders, feeling his muscles and tendons twitching under the fine clothes. My hands, then, decided to go down his strong arms, until they reached the elbows, and then went to roam over his chest. He moved his fingers towards the buttons of his vest, but I pushed them away again. I wanted to unbutton him myself, slowly, enjoying the heat his body emanated and the puzzled look in his face.

"Allow me, please", I told him. "I couldn't even see you properly the other night."

His eyes relaxed and a tiny crooked smile raised his lips. He settled his hands on my shoulders and rubbed them with his thumbs. I slipped his vest through his arms and let it drop on top of the coat. Then I started with his shirt. Thank God, in this occasion his tailor hadn't tortured us with a trendy small buttoned one, and it was a regular and classic shirt with perfectly normal buttons. With every freed button, I kissed lightly the newly released skin. Sherlock hummed and his hands started to stroke patterns all over my chest. As I went down, though, bending over his abdomen, my chaste kisses turned into laps and Sherlock contented himself with grabbing my arms tightly, his breath starting to be laboured. At last, I untucked his shirt from his trousers and pulled the sleeves down his arms. It fell on top of the other clothes, starting to form a multi-coloured bundle. Sherlock stood up and unfastened his trousers. I kneeled on the bed and got rid of my pyjamas, first the top and bottoms following, drinking in the view of Sherlock's body, almost naked as he let go his trousers and pulled his underwear down. His eyes ran hungrily over my body until our gazes locked. Then Sherlock sat on my bed to take his socks off and, as soon as he finished (the bundle now a high mountain of clothes), I held his waist from behind and caressed his nape with my lips. The bare skin of his back against my chest felt amazing, soft and hot. I grunted, impatient, and decided what I wanted to do exactly and how. He turned his neck to kiss me again, and I nipped his lower lip and mumbled against it:

"Can you lie down in the bed? On your front? I would like to enjoy you a bit more".

He looked hesitant again, but he did it. Now the light from the street lamp illuminated his body, with sharp shadows and lights instead of the soft dark silhouette I could see before. I sighed, mouth watering faced with that white and perfect body. And to think I didn't take the chance to see him this way the other night… Making him shiver on the cold floor of a dirty street, what was I thinking about? I had to make it up now. I straddled his hips, with care of not crushing him, and started to stroke his slender back with my fingertips. Sherlock made a contented noise, not very different from a cat's purr, smiling with his eyes closed, and one of my hands went to caress his dark hair. Soon my lips followed my fingers against his skin, drawing patterns on his back, kissing, nibbling or just dragging my lower lip along his spine and his sides. He sighed, clearly enjoying it.

Then I moved lower on the bed and put one knee between Sherlock's thighs. He took the hint and parted his legs; I settled both knees between them and pushed his thighs wide open, causing a strangled moan from Sherlock. Interesting. I ran my hands over his legs, testing, and when I went up his thighs he moaned again. I chuckled and lowered my body to kiss the back of his legs, sucking open-mouthed kisses and caressing and pushing his legs still wider. Sherlock's breath was heavy, and he started to fidget under my body: it was his turn to be impatient.

I went up his thighs until the point where his legs joined and, placing my hands in each delightful mount of flesh in front of me, I gave a tentative lick to his balls. Sherlock jumped at this, and I had to hold back a chuckle. I grabbed him firmly, massaging his soft flesh and parting his cheeks. I was a bit hesitant, but I decided to try and lick around Sherlock's hole. The outcome was great: he actually panted. I did it again, starting a rhythm around his hole, nearer each time, until I put a finger in my mouth and added a fingertip caressing his entrance. Sherlock opened his eyes wide, then, and I noticed that his forehead and upper lip were coated with sweat.

"John!"

And I didn't know if it was a warning, a plea or just a breath out with the shape of my name. But then he managed to regain his voice and mumbled:

"In my coat, in the pocket… Please…"

So I reached his coat on the floor and found a glass jar in one of the pockets: the tag attached was evidently medical; it said: Johnson's & Johnson's KY-Jelly Surgical Lubricant. I laughed; Sherlock was right, it was going to work perfectly! Thank God for the pharmacy advances made since the last time I had to give a full medical check. I opened the lid and coated my fingers with the slippery cream. The touch was cool, but not sticky. I turned my attention again to Sherlock's entrance, and rubbed two wet fingers against it. He jumped again.

"Sorry, it's a bit cold", I apologized, smiling.

"'s OK", he grunted, rubbing his hips against the blankets.

"Easy, there, I want this to last", I warned him.

"Oh, let me be. I promise not to complain if I finish first".

I chuckled again and started to rub in firm circles around his hole, massaging the tight flesh of his bum with my other hand. Then I put a bit more of that magic jelly onto my fingers and shoved one of my fingertips inside him. His rubbing movements turned more desperate. I inserted the rest of my finger, rubbing around his hole with the other ones, and Sherlock let go a:

"Fuck, John!"

I watched, raptly, as he effectively fucked the mattress, with my finger deeply crooked inside his arse, brushing his inner walls.

"I'm beginning to feel jealous…", I said, smiling unabashedly. "It seems you are having a lot of fun down there…"

With that I shoved another finger inside his tight hole, and he groaned loudly. It was incredibly easy, compared to the other night, with only my saliva as a lubricant. This time I didn't need to make a lot of effort, and the ring of muscle seemed to start to dilate without hurting Sherlock, who looked totally lost and in the brink of orgasm. His hips moved frantically now, and a drop of sweat ran down his spine. I lowered my body again to lick it, fascinated. I moved my fingers inside of him, scissoring them, dilating his passage and, when I thought it was ready enough, I located the nut sized gland of his prostate and began to rub it lightly with only my fingertips. The effect was instantly: Sherlock's neck arched, his hips and legs spasmed, and a loud groan left his throat.

When his orgasm calmed down, I removed my fingers from his body and stroked his back and his forearms, sitting by his side. He sighed and opened his eyes again, his light blue gaze fixed in mine. Sherlock raised his hand and caressed my face. He looked truly open and calm, as I had never seen him before.

"You are lovely, John", he whispered. "And so good to me. Don't ever let me hurt you again, John".

I smiled, and kissed his fingers.

"I'll try to remember".

"What you were doing… Keep on doing it, please…"

I raised an eyebrow. Of course I was eager to follow, my cock was so hard that I could jab a nail with it; but Sherlock had just come.

"Are you sure?"

Sherlock nodded, following with his fingers the shape of my lips and then thrusting his index inside my mouth. I sucked it, greedy, and his eyes went from my mouth to my erection.

"Come on, John…"

I wouldn't make him insist further. I settled again between his legs, but before anything I grabbed his waist, moving his hips aside, and pulled the blanket, folding the soaked piece so it wasn't in contact with Sherlock's skin anymore. I stroked again his back and his sides, letting my nails push against his hot skin, and then I went down his thighs. Sherlock let go a soft moan again, I suspected more for reassuring me than for himself. I took the lubricant and poured a generous amount on my erection; I groaned at the contact. The cream felt really nice, and I stroked my length with lazy trails of my fingers and a final firm pump. Satisfied, I placed the tip of my head at Sherlock's hole, and pushed only a bit. He hummed. I went for slow and little pushes, inch by inch, as it had worked well the first time, even without lubricant. When I saw the head of my prick engulfed by Sherlock's body, only the vision pushed me near the edge. I paused, closed my eyes and concentrated on slowing my breathing.

"Don't stop now…", said Sherlock. "It was good."

"Are you sure? Does it hurt this time? How does it feel?"

"I feel… full. Stretched. But it's good, I can take it. The first time was a bit too much, too intense."

"I still have only my head inside."

"Oh."

A little pause.

"Follow all the same, John, if you don't mind."

I nodded, breathed in, and moved again. Each time the head of my cock rubbed against his tight and wet walls, a shot of pleasure went directly to my balls, crossing through my spine. I introduced my member inside, every time a little bit deeper. It was a huge effort doing it slow and softly, especially in that position that made my knees tired and tense, and as soon as I felt I was deep enough, I lay down carefully on top of Sherlock, my body covering his, and I started to move again inside of him, arching my hips, my arms embracing Sherlock's shoulders and neck. It was more comfortable this way, and I could nibble his earlobe and keep a slow and pleasurable rhythm without much effort. I was glad to see that Sherlock was genuinely panting now, with his eyes closed again. A layer of sweat squished between our bodies with every movement.

After a while, I straightened my body and pulled Sherlock with me, until he was on all fours. He turned to watch my movements with his full attention, frowning. I bent to reach his lips with mine, and went back to line up my cock and push myself inside. He groaned; the angle was deeper this time, and I could finally shove inside him without restraint. I thrust hard and deep, not fast but with inexorably efficacy, again and again, grabbing his hips. The bed creaked and rocked with us, and Sherlock's body was pushed forward with every thrust, until he was forced to grip the headboard with both hands, to avoid crashing his head against it every time. I pushed his body further until he sat up, his torso pressed between my body and the headboard, and I placed my hands over his, intertwining our fingers. I kept a fast and hard rhythm now, chaffing Sherlock and biting his nape, and feeling my orgasm very near, impossible to avoid much longer.

I gave Sherlock a bit of space and kneeled, resting my bum upon my feet. I took him with me, holding his waist tight, kissing his sweaty shoulder, and settled him in my lap. I felt my cock throbbing inside of him, burning, and he immediately started to rock his hips, rubbing the head of my cock against his prostate with short and desperate movements. I held him tighter and we began to rock our bodies together, my length firmly deep inside of him. It was so good that I didn't need to pull out from him; I felt our two bodies so deeply intertwined that it was impossible to tell where one finished and the other began.

I let one of my hands wander down and cover Sherlock's, that was working his cock with hard and long strokes. Soon we were immersed in the same hypnotic rhythm, our bodies and our hands around Sherlock's cock, and then I bit his neck and felt his whole body shudder and his member start to shoot cum all over our hands. His passage clenched involuntarily, and with that my orgasm hit me hard, at last, and my groans and Sherlock's ones mixed in the overheated air of my bedroom.

It was a magnificent orgasm, but it left me exhausted and dizzy. Sherlock was still in my lap, but when I nudged him in his side, he grunted and held my arms tight, placing them again around his waist.

"Don't let me go, John."

"We should move, Sherlock, and clean ourselves a bit", I objected.

But he grunted again as an answer, so I sighed and contented myself manoeuvring us to lie down on our sides, my member still trapped inside of him. Eventually, it slipped out, but we kept our position, tightly spooned. The sleep that had been eluding me previously was attempting to win me over, but I resisted it with a muffled yawn.

"Sherlock?"

"Mmmmmm?"

He sounded half asleep, too, but his hand kept stroking my arm on his waist.

"I was right, then? Do we have something? Something deeper than sex, I mean." I felt uncertain, but I had to ask anyway. I needed an answer.

"Mmm. I don't know".

I felt the anger rising by my throat.

"But you said something along those lines when you entered here, Sherlock!"

"I know!" He sounded a bit upset, and a bit nervous. "It was true. All that I said."

"And then?", I insisted.

"I… can't promise anything. I've never had a relationship before, I'm sure I will fuck it up", he sighed.

I considered this.

"Do you want to try?", I asked him. "I won't expect… anything from you. Only trying."

"I want to be with you, John. Is it enough?"

"For now, yes." I kissed his shoulders, dotted with moles. "But I regret to say that I need some explanations."

Sherlock sighed loudly, his back moving against my chest.

"Can it wait until the morning? I'm almost asleep."

"No, sorry but no. And moreover, who tells me I'm not going to wake up alone and handcuffed to the headboard, this time?"

Sherlock's laugh rumbled in his throat.

"I'm not handcuffing you this time, I swear!" Then he turned his face to grin at me. "Unless you ask me to, of course."

I opened my eyes wide, startled, and then I started to laugh with him, unable to stop.


	7. Chapter 7

Sherlock sat up on the bed and reached for his coat, drawing a cigarette pack out of one of the multiple pockets. I laid my head in my elbow and stared, fascinated, as Sherlock put one cigarette between his lips, lighted a match and sucked in the first puff, hollowing his cheeks. It was not the first time I saw him doing it, but I realised that it was the first time I could watch him without having to pretend that I wasn't enjoying the view. I sighed, feeling warm and happy, and Sherlock let the pack drop to the floor and smiled at me: not with the crooked tiny smile that always showed in the papers, but his true relaxed smile that reached his eyes and turned them into two bright jewels.

"Alright", I said, "first question: why me?"

The question took Sherlock by surprise. But then he chuckled quietly and considered his answer during two puffs of his cigarette.

"I have wondered that myself", he said at last. "When I read your report at first, I was intrigued, as I told you. When I went to meet you at the café, however, you were not what I was expecting."

I raised my eyebrows, curious.

"People usually react in one of three different ways: they suck up to me, due to my money or some petty favour they are seeking from me, they fear me, or they just despise me. You didn't react either way."

I smiled again.

"And then", he followed, "I found out you are the most honest and brave man I've ever met".

I let my gaze drop, feeling my smile turn sad.

"You mean, the foolest. You were right when you said I was candid."

"I am always right! But I don't remember saying that word."

"It was something alike. And it's exactly how I feel: candid."

Sherlock took my cheek with his free hand and made me look at his eyes again.

"Not your fault, John. And I also said brave, and I mean it". He turned to stub out his cigarette in my nightstand. His eyes got caught by his black and white photograph and smiled smugly at me. I'm sure I blushed, embarrassed, but he quickly kissed my brow and said: "I was all set in tracing a thorough plan to seduce you, for your information. And then you surprised me that night, sending all caution to the wind. That makes you braver to my eyes than all the medals that can be awarded to a war hero!"

"I must admit", I said, laughing, "that I surprised even myself that night".

"Are you always so impulsive?"

"Sometimes, yes. But in this case I don't regret it".

"Good, I'm glad".

He hugged me and I seek his mouth to kiss him again, holding him tight.

"Is there a second question, or are we just starting again?". His voice came muffled by my shoulder, where I had him pinned.

I chuckled and let him go. My next question wasn't so agreeable, and Sherlock sat up close to me, his gaze fixed in the sudden tension of my posture. I sighed; it was impossible to hide anything from him. I felt awkwardly exposed in front of him, as if I was nude on my inside as well as on my outside.

"OK, the second one. Did you kill that security guard?"

"No", Sherlock hurried to answer. "I was in that office a week ago, but I had nothing to do with that murder. There was someone else there that night. I took what I was after and left, and nobody would have noticed if not for that murder. I wasn't there either last night."

"I know". I let my mind wander until I felt Sherlock's grip in my wrist.

"I'm not a murderer, John. I swear. I've only taken two lives in all my life, and both were in self-defence."

I look at him in disbelief; but if I ever have seen a sincere face, that was Sherlock's at that moment. I nodded.

"I believe you. I'm not one to talk, I had my share of taking human lives at the War." Sherlock's grip tightened in a mute 'thank you'. "Can I ask what were you doing in a lawyer's office at night?"

He arched an eyebrow.

"Nothing you say will come out of here", I said quickly. "It's only that I need to know; all those loose ends are killing me."

Sherlock sighed and stretched languidly in my bed, placing his hands together in front of his mouth, as if praying. I smiled, amused, and made a mental note of teasing him with this when we were in a more relaxed moment.

"My current operation is quite simple", Sherlock said at last. "It's not even that criminal… I investigate the wills of elder and moderately wealthy people without offspring, and change some of them in order to redirect that money or real state to my brother or myself. Nobody is damaged, except perhaps some ridiculous charity foundation…"

"Sherlock, that's horrible!"

"Oh, come on, John, not everybody leaves their money to the war's orphans! The owner of that house where you found me last week was leaving her house and her life's savings to a cats' refuge! Do they really need so much?"

"Do you and your brother need it?"

I realised I had raised my voice; I coughed and looked away.

"Sorry; it's none of my business. And you are right: forging documents and robbing is less criminal than murder."

"I told you so!"

I looked back at him, amazed: the complete prick has a satisfied smile filling his face. I groaned and rubbed my brow. This was going to be difficult. But hey, what did I expect?

"Let's get back to the point, will you?", I asked him, trying to stay calm. "So, there's someone out there trying to plant that murder in you, making the police believe you came back last night to the crime scene."

"I know", he said, his voice an almost inaudible breath.

"And do you know who is it?"

"I have some theories, but the name still eludes me. It has to be someone from my organisation, John; that's what has me worrying these last weeks. I never, _never_, leave any traces behind, except when I want to. The night we met at the former mayor's house it was all planned: you had to see the business of our dear politician, and said business had to disappear completely. I relied in the darkness to make you a questionable witness in any trial against me; sorry for that. But the other night wasn't planned: someone warned Scotland Yard, someone who knew about my schedule."

"Well, you sorted it out quite well to avoid getting caught."

We both giggled, but Sherlock remained concerned, still frowning a bit.

"Still, you will be called to Court to stand against me very soon."

I nodded. Even though I knew perfectly well that Sherlock was a criminal, I still didn't like to see him worried and thoughtful. I reached out to caress his frown. He looked back at me, surprised, and I lowered myself to kiss his lips and make me comfortable on his chest. His arms settled around me at once, and I felt his voice rumble across his chest and throat.

"Can we sleep now?"

I nodded, nuzzling into his breast and catching a little nipple between my lips.

"Tomorrow, John", he whispered, already half asleep. But I heard the contented smile in his voice.

* * *

I opened my eyes feeling that something was wrong. Sherlock was staring at me, and at first I wondered if he had just awaken, like me, or if he had been awake for a while and was just lying there, looking at me. But almost immediately I saw a question in his eyes, and then I felt it again: there was something off. A presence. A walking presence. Someone other than Sherlock wanted to surprise me that night, and I had no idea of who could it be, but I was sure that this other surprise wouldn't be so nice to receive. I pointed the window with my chin, and Sherlock nodded and rose from the bed, still naked, silent and graceful like a cat. I tried to be as silent as him; I took the bundle of clothes from the floor and placed them in the bed, quickly, covering them with the bedspread. I kicked Sherlock's shoes behind my bed, grabbed my gun and followed Sherlock through the window.

A narrow metallic stair went upwards, to the roof; Sherlock perched there, crouching as a pale raven. I pushed him one stair up and crouched by his side. One look down, to the dark patio, didn't reveal anyone, intruder or neighbour. I really hoped nobody would go out for fresh air in that moment: the sudden vision of two naked men in the roof's stairs could be rather alarming.

I heard my bedroom's door opening and unlocked my gun. After barely a second, a "thoud!" hissed, the familiar sound of a gun with a silencer, followed by ripped clothes. I moved quickly and aimed low, towards the feet of my bed. My unsilenced gun resounded in the whole neighbourhood, but Sherlock and I didn't stop to wait for the neighbours' reaction: we both jumped inside my bedroom, taking advance of the surprise upon our attacker. Sherlock threw himself over the intruder, hitting the man's chin with his head; the gun with the elongated silencer flew from his hand and Sherlock caught it with an easy and feline motion. I was impressed. I felt like an elephant by his side, limiting my actions to kick the man's ankle and making him loose feet. He fell facewards. I immobilized his arms, noticing that my bullet had grazed his shin. Sherlock made him turn to face us, and I swear I don't know who of all three was more surprised to see the other.

"Frank!", I cried out. "What the hell…?"

The photographer looked from Sherlock to me, panicked. Then his eyes went from our faces down to our naked bodies and his gaze turned slightly more startled than frightened. Sherlock reacted so fast that I didn't have the time to get embarrassed.

"Impersonating me again, I see…"

And Sherlock was right, of course: Frank was wearing a long and dark coat and grey fedora and his hair looked different, with loose curls like Sherlock's hair.

"You were going to kill Sergeant Watson and put the blame on me. Who's your boss?". Sherlock aimed Frank with his own gun. My former photographer gritted his teeth but remained silent.

"Frank, listen to me", I told him. "If you tell us the truth and give us names, I will ensure you don't get hanged for this". Sherlock opened his mouth to disagree, thinking of the dead guard, for sure, but I glared at him and, fortunately, he noticed and kept quiet.

"Ha!", Frank spat, disdainful. "If you are trying to fool me, you are doing an awful job here, Sergeant! We both know the charges: murder, for the security guard, and attempted murder of a police officer. There's no way to avoid the rope for me. So only one solution left, eh?"

"Listen, you have been aiding the police for more than ten years, you are well regarded, we can help you if you just tell us…"

Suddenly, a shake, Frank's arms free, and a sharp movement from his boot to his neck. Blood flew from his neck to my face. I watched, open-mouthed, blood drops dripping chin down to my chest, to the floor, as Frank convulsed a short moment and that was it. I looked my own hands, pressing the cut on Frank's jugular, turning red, submerged in red, until red was the only I could see. Thank God for Sherlock, who was pulling my arm and shaking me. I still saw red, red in his face, red in his pale long limbs, and I must had been babbling, because he suddenly kissed me, only a peck, and whispered:

"Shut up and get dressed, John, we have to go now. Please, it's going to be alright, but shut up".

I did shut up. I can't remember getting dressed, but at one given moment we were running by the streets, and I had even my coat on. Sherlock ran ahead, and I followed him across backyards and alleys and dark and lonely streets until we were very far from my house. We stopped a moment to catch our breath, and Sherlock took my face between his hands, worry showing in his features.

"Are you alright?"

I nodded, feeling less disoriented. I could hear police sirens a few streets away.

"Sherlock, I should go and testify…"

"Whoever is trying to frame me has just tried to kill you, John. You are not on duty right now; let the police do their job. Come on, we will be safer at my flat".

I raised an eyebrow in disbelief, but he took my hand and started to run again. My only option was following him.

* * *

We arrived to his flat after what seemed hours running, but we made it. Sherlock trotted upstairs and crossed the sitting room towards his bedroom's door. I stood in the middle of the parlour, hesitant, until Sherlock came back and grabbed my arm.

"You should rest, John. Come on, go to bed, I will join you in a while."

I dared to enter his bedroom. It was tidier than the sitting room; the landlady clearly was a competent woman. The decoration here was scarce but elegant: a Biedenmeier bureau, a chiffonier and the narrow bed were all the furniture at sight. I sat on the bed and let my coat slip shoulders down. The fireplace was burning lightly, and the bed looked warm and comfortable; I felt suddenly tired and sleepy. Sherlock poked his head through the door and frown.

"Still awake? Go on, sleep!"

And he disappeared again. I undressed until I was only wearing my vest and underwear and crawled into the bed. I dozed, watching the fire, a most welcomed red colour that erased all the blood from my mind, and after a while (minutes? an hour?) I suddenly woke to a rustle of burning wood: Sherlock was adding some firewood and dropping his clothes off. He climbed into the narrow bed with me; I budged until I was trapped between the wall and his warm body. He settled facing the fireplace and placed my arm in his waist; I took the hint and spooned him tightly, smelling his hair (tobacco, fresh air and something spicy that smelled just as the essence of Sherlock, as mystery and adventure and London).

"What were you doing?", I asked him. I was almost asleep again.

"Setting the traps on place". He turned his face to look at me and smiled; my eyes were practically closed. "Sleep, I'll explain tomorrow".

I tried to say "OK", but I think I was already dreaming.


	8. Chapter 8

I opened my eyes the next morning, and at first I felt disoriented and totally clueless about my location. The morning light flooded the bedroom, the fireplace was off but I felt warm and safe. That feeling brought me again all the facts from last night, and I jumped from the bed looking for my clothes. They were crumpled but still more or less clean, so I got dressed while admiring the photograph collection over the mantelpiece. It was quite curious: they were photographs of men; some of them were scientists and some were famous criminals from the last 50 years. Sherlock's taste was indeed peculiar.

I poked my head from the bedroom, shyly.

"Ah, there you are at last, John!", rumbled Sherlock's voice on seeing me. "I was wondering if I had to wake you up with a kiss, my Belle Dormant..."

Sherlock was sitting at the breakfast table, dressed in his vest, underwear and an open dressing gown, while an old lady poured two cups of tea. She grinned at Sherlock's words; I tried to make a "not-embarrassed, not-impressed" entrance in the room. Tried and failed completely when Sherlock raised his gaze from the newspaper and looked at me again, laughing.

"Look at you! Doesn't he have a lovely blush, Mrs. Hudson?"

The old lady smiled and turned her attention to the breakfast.

"Don't be such a tease, Sherlock, your friend has just woke up... Sit down, sir, there's tea, coffee, scrambled eggs, and perhaps you would rather have a toast?"

"John, this is Mrs. Hudson, the reason I'm still alive... Where would I be without your care, Mrs. Hudson?"

The old woman shushed Sherlock, but smiled clearly pleased. I reached my hand to her and introduced myself. She shook my hand and left again, still smiling. I sat next to Sherlock. He watched me while I added milk to my cup of tea and put a ration of scrambled eggs on my plate. I still felt a bit shy in his flat, especially while trying to endure his stare.

"Anything interesting in the news?", I asked, trying to distract him from the watchful eye he was dispensing me.

"You are more interesting than the newspaper", he grinned, bending to kiss my lips. After that he looked thoughtful. He started to nip at his eggs and, after a short silence, he added: "Interesting. I didn't know if I was going to like having you around, but I think I can get used to it."

"I am not moving in permanently, am I?", I frowned. "Do you think whoever send Frank to kill me will try it again?"

"The initial plan was killing you, the Scotland Yard Sergeant that was going to testify against me at Court, and plant that murder on me. Since the plan failed, whoever is behind this cannot be sure of how much do you know exactly, so yes, John, I'm afraid you are still in danger."

"But at least I should tell the Yard that I am alive!"

Sherlock considered this for a moment.

"OK. But send a message, and don't tell them where you are. Write it, Mrs. Hudson will make sure an errand boy carries it to Inspector Lestrade. Don't use the telephone and don't leave the flat, John. Not until I have sorted it out."

"You?", I smiled. "I thought I was the policeman here…"

He abandoned the breakfast table, after just a cup of tea and a mouthful of scrambled eggs, and plopped down on the couch.

"I don't think you have all the details, John", he sighed. "Neither do I. I'm afraid I need more information."

He lay silently, motionless, while I finished my breakfast. I watched him as he gazed at the ceiling, his hands again in that strange praying posture, touching his chin.

"Sherlock, you should finish your breakfast."

"What I should do is think", he grunted, "and you are disturbing me."

"Oh, that's great!", I answered, angrily. "So now I'm a prisoner in your flat, and I am not even allowed to help you? I think I've had enough."

I stood up with the note for Lestrade in my hand, decided to give it to Mrs. Hudson and leave. I was sure that I could stay a couple of days with some of my friends. Even a hotel would do. But suddenly Sherlock's hand was grabbing my arm, hard, and when I turned, shaking it off, he pulled me until I was kneeling on the coach, next to him.

"Don't leave!". He sat up and buried his face in my chest. My hand went to his hair on its own accord, and I closed my eyes, sighing, while my annoyance receded. I felt incredibly frustrated all the same. "You can help me with it, if it makes you feel more useful."

I raised my eyebrows, annoyed. This man was testing my patience.

"That would be a first, yes", I said, nonetheless.

I sat by his side. Sherlock rang the electric bell and Mrs. Hudson's voice arrived to us, hollow as if we heard it through a tunnel.

"Yes, Sherlock?"

My friend mocked of my stunned face.

"Mrs. Hudson, we have a note that has to be delivered to Inspector Lestrade at Scotland Yard as soon as possible. Here you are."

Sherlock took the envelope and introduced it through a slot, barely visible over the couch.

"I've got it! I'll take care of it at once, Sherlock".

I touched the slit, and I noticed an output just over it, camouflaged among the paperwall flowers. A speaker, connected with Mrs. Hudson downstairs? Possibly.

"That's amazing, Sherlock!", I exclaimed, smiling. "Very clever."

He laughed, pleased.

"And you still haven't seen anything. I told you would be safer in my flat."

"There are traps, you said? I didn't know if I had dreamt it."

"Yes, there are traps", he smiled. Then he sighed and put on his "thinking face" again. "Let's return to the problem at hand, shall we?". I nodded. "I already told you that Frank White was on my list: he was accepting money from my organisation. His contact was Leonard Stanheimer. I have written my right hand man first thing in the morning, asking further details of Stanheimer's background. Why would he hire Frank White for murdering someone and frame me? What does he win with it? Is he on his own, or is he working for someone else? If I remember well, Stanheimer was a small-time thief before joining us, this looks too clever for him; but perhaps he can have turned ambitious…"

I licked my lips, thinking. He was right: I didn't have all the details. Stanheimer was only a minor minion for my Department; we weren't even sure about his place or tasks inside the Homes' organisation. So we could now be sure about this one thing: Stanheimer was sneaky as an eel, if he had successfully eluded his boss and ours interests. I voiced my thoughts, and Sherlock agreed, and told me that we had to wait until his man sent his news.

"Can I play the violin for you?", he asked me, smiling.

I smiled back. I must admit that my usual music taste is mostly Louis Armstrong, Bing Crosby and Ethel Waters, but Mendelssohn and Brahms were… sexy, when Sherlock played them. He was really good at it, technically virtuous and passionate, and soon I was clapping and cheering at the end of each song. At first I was afraid of embarrassing him, but Sherlock blushed adorably and looked very pleased. After an hour or so I approached him and pointed out his violin case; he took the hint and tucked the instrument in its case, very carefully. When he did it, I embraced him, resting my forehead on his shoulder, my nose in the crook of his warm neck.

"That was lovely, Sherlock. You should play in a theatre, instead of…"

I held my tongue, don't wanting to spoil the moment. We would have to talk about it someday, but it didn't have to be then. His hand took my chin and suddenly his lips were on mine. We both sighed at the same time, content. Sherlock pushed me towards the window seat and held me there, his hips pressing mine until the back of my head touched the glass of the window and I couldn't move, completely at his mercy. His kiss turned more urgent, deeper and wetter, and my hands fought for a moment to stay inside his curls, stroking his scalp, but at last they lost the battle and went down to grip his hips tightly.

The sound of the street door closing made us gasp in unison. Mrs. Hudson had come back from her errands a while ago. Sherlock tensed and whispered in my ear:

"Go to my bedroom and don't move, don't make a sound".

He released me and I closed myself inside his bedroom as fast and silently as I could. I glued my ear to the door: someone entered the parlour, someone familiar to Sherlock.

"I wasn't expecting you", grunted Sherlock. "Where the hell is Wiggings?"

Silence. Someone, most probably the newcomer, started to pace the parlour, but not with the nervous strides that I associated with Sherlock.

"Wiggins will arrive in due course, don't worry. He had the good sense of reporting to me once he obtained news about that Stanheimer."

Sherlock started cursing and shouting abuse at his guest. The other man's voice was soft and even more posh than Sherlock's. He seemed to remain absolutely calm at my friend's anger, and that gave me goosebumps. I thought I knew who our guest was.

"When you wish, my dear Sherlock, you might calm down, take a sit and perhaps talk like adults for a short while."

I could practically hear his complacent smile and Sherlock's annoyance starting to dissipate. Surely he was sprawling on the couch again; I wished I dared to open the door to peep out, but I should be content with hearing the conversation.

"That's much better, don't you think? Time to work, then. I am glad you turned your attention to Stanheimer, Sherlock. Wiggins has investigated him thoroughly, and it follows that Stanheimer has been acting rather out from his routine during the last months."

"I thought you kept good watch on the men, Mycroft...", Sherlock scoffed.

So my guessing was right, then: our guest was Sherlock's older brother, Mycroft Holmes. The brain behind half the criminal works in London.

"And I do. Or I thought I did. Stanheimer has asked for some permission on the last months, supposedly to visit his old mother, who has a long term disease. That fact is true, but the visits... well, Wiggins has uncovered multiple works that have little to do with our orders, during said licenses."

"Who is paying him? Whose organisation?"

I almost gasped. How Lestrade would love to be here at those moments...

"There is of course an organisation behind, that is for sure, but my suspicions go to someone inside our own one."

The footsteps sounded again in the next room, this time alarmingly near my door. I held my breath, feeling cold sweat running down my spine. Sherlock's brother or not, Mycroft Holmes was going to kill me if he found me there, spying their conversation.

"That makes no sense, Mycroft; it would have to be someone from the inner circle, and I have every confidence in Wiggins! Above him, it only could be... Oh!"

A tense silence grew in the sitting room.

"Is it Howard?", asked Sherlock. "Or Johnson?"

Mycroft Holmes sighed.

"I wish I knew. In fact, it doesn't matter: either of them would mean a huge blow for our family. To think that one of my right hand men is selling us to another organisation... Our traitor is trying to get you in jail and isolate me. If the police arrive at you, it would be the end of the trust that our men have in us, the end of the respect that we have worked so hard to obtain from all organisations in London. We must stop him, and prune our tree."

"I will take care of that. It's no use that I appear publicly right now, so I will employ my time better investigating what's going on."

"That's exactly what I was going to suggest, Sherlock: now that they know that you have discovered the plot, it might be dangerous to stay in the open". His footsteps moved towards the door that led to the main stairs; I breathed again, relieved. "I will pass by your club this evening and tell them you are indisposed. It's not very far fetched, given that you have already a doctor at home... Bye, Sherlock!"

And the sound of the door closing after him was the only response.


	9. Chapter 9

I stepped out from Sherlock's room feeling pale and dizzy. He was standing in the middle of the parlour, his hands clenched in fists, casting an angry gaze to the door where his brother had just disappeared.

"How the hell does he know, Sherlock?"

He turned to look at me as if he had forgotten that I was there. The annoyance slipped from his face, leaving only a slight concerned frown.

"He is always like that. Always has been, so don't pay him any attention". Sherlock sighed, rang the bell and dropped dramatically on the couch. "Mrs. Hudson, is lunch ready? You can bring it upstairs when you wish; we will be three."

"Three?", I asked.

He buried his nose in the newspaper, ignoring me. I puffed, annoyed, and announced to the world that I was going downstairs to see if Mrs. Hudson needed any help. But as soon as I stepped in the narrow hall, the street door's bell sounded. Mrs. Hudson hurried to open the door, but before we could see who it was, Sherlock's voice resounded upstairs:

"Mrs. Hudson, tell Wiggins to come upstairs without further delay!"

The door opened, and a fourteen years old rascal (in a rough guess), with his cap in his hands, stepped in mumbling "good afternoon" to us, and ran up the stairs. Mrs. Hudson put a plate on my hands and gave me a light shove; I got out from my astonishment and moved upstairs after the kid. He was already sitting to the table, with his dirty hands on his lap, playing with the cap. I set the plate and cleared the rest of the mess from the table. Mrs. Hudson arrived on my heels with the silverware, the dishes and another plate.

"This is not the correct way to tend your guests, Sherlock! What a mess!"

Sherlock looked upset but said nothing, and the boy smiled, showing his big frontal teeth. I found amusing that the woman acted like Sherlock's mother, and the kid and I shared an accomplice glance. He reached out and said "Wiggins" as his only introduction; I did the same, stating my name and surname. Sherlock rose from the couch with a sigh and sat at the table with us, while Mrs. Hudson finished preparing the table.

"Wiggins", Sherlock said, "this man has my complete trust, you can talk in front of him as if we were alone".

The kid nodded, still smiling, and stared at me for a long amount of time. I was about to ask him if his parents hadn't taught him that staring is impolite, but I supposed he was wondering what in me made me so trustworthy. Mrs. Hudson took another plate from the little hoist, set it on the table and left. We had a small banquet in front of us, and Wiggins dared one questioning look towards Sherlock, waited until he nodded, and then attacked the food as a hungry puppy. Sherlock and I laughed, and started to serve ourselves from the plate.

"Well, Wiggins", Sherlock said, "you almost met my brother at the stairs".

The poor lad almost choked on his food.

"When? Mr. Holmes can't have been here, I left him not half an hour ago!"

"The advantage of having a car, Wiggings... Why did you went to see him, in first place?"

"I'm sorry, Sherlock, I was worried. Stanheimer's actions were completely unexpected, and you didn't come back to the club last night, or this morning..."

The boy detailed then all the works and contacts of Stanheimer that had nothing to do with his work at the Holmes organisation. I understood almost all of it; after all, the Holmes brothers were not the only family that my Department was after. Stanheimer had made contact with all the great bosses in London in the last two months. I would think that he was trying to work for another organisation if not for Mycroft Holmes' words. It all made sense: he was convincing the other bosses in town that a power replacement would take place in the Holmes organisation very soon. Getting rid of Sherlock would ensure that everybody saw the Holmes brothers as weak and outdated. Perhaps they would keep Mycroft as a vice-captain, for the sake of his seniority . But it was clear for Sherlock and his brother that Stanheimer wouldn't be the number one. He explained Wiggins his suspicions about Howard and Johnson, shared with his brother, while the lad finished his second dish and blurped, satisfied. Mrs. Hudson, God bless her, appeared with the coffee and cleared the table.

"I give for granted that my brother has asked you to keep tabs on Howard and Johnson", said Sherlock. The boy nodded, his mouth still full. "Do it. Send me a report of their movements every hour; yes, you must report me as well as my brother. Don't explain anything to the other boys, we can't be sure of them at the moment". Wiggins raised one eyebrow. "You are out of suspicion, Wiggins, don't be upset. But until all of this mess is cleared, we cannot rely on anybody else: only Mycroft, my friend John present here, you and I. Is it clear?". The boy nodded again, looking worried. "Fine. Before you go, Wiggins, only one thing: ask one of the boys to bring some clean clothes for John with the next report, would you? He had to leave his flat in a rush and he's in pressing need of a bath and a change of clothes."

I had to repress the urge of smelling my shirt; thank God the boy just nodded and didn't question anything. He simply drank his coffee quickly and left.

"I will prepare myself a bath", I mumbled when we were alone again, slightly embarrassed.

"Mrs. Hudson can do it for you, John: you only need to ring the bell"

"I'm not used to have a maid, Sherlock, I'm perfectly capable of doing it myself"

He shrugged and started to spread the papers with Wiggings' reports on the dining table, on top of the remains of our coffee and pastries. I heard Mrs. Hudson scolding him again for that, from the bathroom, and Sherlock sighing and grunting while moving all the papers to the coffee table.

* * *

I felt wonderfully relaxed after the bath, and I had the unexpected surprise of finding a full change of clothes waiting for me in Sherlock's bedroom. It was even my size. I thanked mentally Wiggins for being so thoughtful and fast; he had been gone for less than an hour. The style, however, was a tad too elegant for me. But it worth it when I stepped out the bedroom and Sherlock raised his face from his papers to look at me.

"John...", he whispered, with a brow raised and interest clearly shown in his face.

I gigled and came closer to him. We had the rest of the evening in front of us, with nothing to do except wait for reports, after all. I took the papers from his hands and placed them on the coffee table, on top of the others, and sat stradling his legs.

"Sherlock", I answered, whispering in his ear, before starting to nibble his earlobe. He gasped and held my waist, closing his eyes and looking blindly for my neck. I turned to make it easier and relaxed to his mouth licking and biting softly at my throat. I caressed his hair, kissing his forehead, while his hands made quick work of my shirt buttons and lost themselves inside my clothes.

"Perhaps I shouldn't waste my time getting dressed", I laughed. "It would have been more practical if I had come to the sitting room in a towel."

Sherlock gigled and fondled my bum over the fabric. I took his face in my hands and snogged him for a while, feeling him turn boneless between my arms. Exactly how I wanted him. His hands started to grab the front of my shirt, helpless, unable to do anything else anymore, his breathing ragged and his eyes closed.

The front door bell rang again. We froze at the spot. After a second, we started to disentangle our limbs from the other and stood up. Mrs. Hudson voice arrived to us from the stairs.

"I'm coming! Wait a moment, please".

Sherlock touched something over the couch, near to the slit connected to Mrs. Hudson's flat and the hoist. He opened a small door on the wall, concealed again amongst the wallpaper, and extracted something resembling a pipe. A mobile pipe. He took it and looked at the extreme; I came closer to take a proper look to the object, because it seemed...

"Is it a periscope, Sherlock?"

"Shhhhhh, John... Yes, obviously. Mrs. Hudson is buying us a bit of time, I think we must go out for some fresh air... Take a look yourself".

I did. The extreme was fitted with a lense, and through it I could clearly see Inspector Lestrade, Sergeant Donovan, James and two other colleagues from the Organised Crime Department (but not Smith, my mate). Mrs. Hudson had finally opened the door to them, and Lestrade was showing her his identification and explaining something. Sherlock pressed the speaker and suddenly we could hear them. My friend put his hand over my mouth, in case I didn't remember that the sound went in both directions. I held my breath.

"...We have the Court order to search the house for illegal substances, M'am. I beg you don't interfere, or you could be charged of obstructing the authorities".

Sherlock pressed again the speaker, disconnecting the sound. I kept stuck to the periscope, watching as Mrs. Hudson played dumb and "inadvertently" blocked the door, and Lestrade started to lose his patience and tryed to push her away in a polite form. Sherlock took the periscope in a quick shove and closed it again behind the small door. I reacted at last, buttoning my shirt and reaching for my shoes. Sherlock opened another hidden trap, in the bedroom ceiling in this case, and pulled down a wooden stair. We climbed it and folded it after us, closing the trap just in time: we heard Lestrade steps entering the sitting room, and Mrs. Hudson shouting after him:

"I told you he isn't in there! You can look for whatever you are after, but please keep all the stuff in order and don't make a mess; I have to keep this place fit, you know?"

The rest of the cops stepped in Sherlock's flat, spreading across the rooms. I dared at last to look around me: we where in a narrow and low-roofed room, the kind you usually use to keep your boxes and suitcases; but it was clear that Sherlock had found other uses for his. He had Wiggins' initial report in one hand, and he placed the papers above the rest that covered an old desk. That desk, a chair and an open trunk, full of papers and books as well, were tightly fit inside the small room. Fortunately, there was also a window. Sherlock sat on the window seat and signalled the chair. I sat and listened to the movements on the flat under us, as silent as I could manage.

Lestrade was barking orders to his people, there were steps and sounds of violent moved furniture and Mrs. Hudson complains after it. After five minutes or so, I glanced Sherlock a silent question. He took my hand as his answer, and I interpreted it as "wait a bit". At last, Lestrade grunted, clearly unpleased, and said aloud:

"Alright, guys, the bird has flied. Let's make ourselves comfortable: he will come back one moment or another".

I closed my eyes with a silent sigh, while Mrs. Hudson aired what she did think of Scotland Yard rude cops making her job impossible and hard. She kept ranting until Lestrade convinced her that they weren't breaking any furniture or untidying anything else, and in fact while they waited for the return of her boss, they were of course pleased of helping her to tidy up the flat again. I gigled covering my mouth, imagining the woman bothering Lestrade and my mates; pity we hadn't got a periscope in this room! Sherlock grabbed my sleeve and signalled the window. I nodded and stood (well, almost stood, because the roof was too low to stand in that storage room). I followed Sherlock through the window and across a small wooden platform that joined his roof with the next one. A staircase similar to the one at my building left us in a terrace, and from there, with a short jump, we were two buildings far from Sherlock's. I stopped to hold my thigh, that hadn't taken the jump that well. Sherlock turned to look at me with concern.

"Are you alright?", he asked. I nodded, of course, trying to ignore the pain. What else could I do? "Are you able to go down a pipe? It's our only way to go down the street. If you can't, perhaps we could hide here, it's almost night after all..."

"Oi! Watson!"

Sherlock and I turned; Lestrade's head was poking out from Sherlock's bedroom, eyes wide and frown in annoyance.

"What are you doing, John?", he shout at me, "I told you to keep away from Sherlock Holmes!"

"I'm sorry, Inspector!"

"You will be still more sorry when you come back to the Yard, what where you thinking about? I warned you, John. You are a good cop, one of the best men I've ever had, you can't arrive to imagine how dissapointed I am on you."

"But you came here looking for me, isn't it?", I asked him.

I could see him hesitate. Sherlock decided it was his turn to move and started to go down the pipe.

"I had to check that Holmes hadn't seized you".

"Sherlock is innocent, Greg. Frank tried to kill me and blame Sherlock for it; he also murdered the guard at Regent Street, he confessed to me before killing himself. Go and investigate Frank and Stanheimer, they are the ones you are looking for."

He looked disoriented.

"We found Frank at your flat, as you said in your note. But Stanheimer? He works for Holmes!"

"Not anymore".

Sherlock was at the feet of the pipe, waiting for me. I had to decide what I wanted to do now. What I wanted to be.

"John! Come back here, I will let you help us with the investigation. Just... don't get involved with Sherlock Holmes anymore, we will find the way to keep your service record clean, I swear. We need you!"

Curiously, that made my decision clearer. I positioned myself to go pipe down and started the descent.

"John! What are you doing!", Lestrade shouted.

I arrive down, my thigh aching with a sharp pain, but Sherlock had a wide smile in his face, his eyes gleaming in the dark and lonely street, and I turned to Lestrade for the last time and shouted back:

"Please, accept my resign, Lestrade!"

Sherlock started to laugh, caught my hand and we started to run across the city again.


	10. Chapter 10

**Still unbetaed, sorry; if you prefer to wait, my wonderful beta will have it cleaned in a day or two.**

**And, ehem, if you like the story or you want to comment anything, you know reviews make my day!**

* * *

We ran for a while westwards, but avoiding Marylebone Road and all the wide or well lit streets; even though we ventured for a moment near St George Street, where Sherlock stopped, wrote something on his notebook and left the written page half hidden inside the slit of a mailbox. I took the chance of regaining my breath a bit, but Sherlock was fast in starting to run again. When he finally stopped in front of a terraced house, I was slightly lost; we were near Hyde Park (Strathearn Place, perhaps?), it's all I could say for sure.

He leaned to knock the door with care; I looked around but the street was luckily empty. After a moment the door opened and a young woman in her dressing gown stared at us, utterly confused.

"Who's that, at these hours?", shouted a male voice behind her.

The owner of the voice appeared quickly, surprised at first but starting to smile widely as soon as he saw Sherlock. He shoved the woman aside with an affectionate but firm hand on her waist.

"You can go back to bed, darling; I'll take care of this. Mr. Holmes! What an unexpected pleasure! What can I do for you tonight?"

"My friend and I are in need of a room to rest". Sherlock smiled to the annoyed woman, who shot us a suspicious gaze before disappearing upstairs. "I hope it's not a great inconvenience for your family, Wiggins."

I looked from Sherlock to the young man: Wiggins? But of course! How could I have been so blind? The house owner had the same features as our friend Wiggins, but cleaner and older. I calculated him to be nineteen to twenty years old, obviously the older married sibling of Sherlock's right hand man.

Wiggins senior led us to a small room facing the street. He apologized deeply for having only one bed available, almost bowing obsequiously.

"It won't be a problem, Wiggins. One of us can sleep on the armchair", Sherlock said, trying to dismiss him as soon as possible.

The young man opened his eyes wide in disbelief.

"Oh, no, sir! Mr. Holmes can't sleep in an armchair! My brother would kill me if I treated you with such disrespect!"

Sherlock simply sighed and ignored him, letting himself drop on the armchair and starting to take his scarf off.

"I will sleep on the armchair, then, please don't worry any further", I said, patting the man's back and closing the door behind him, while I mumbled my thank-yous and good-nights. I turned to Sherlock, who had already unbuttoned his coat and lighted a cigarette. "Eager to please, your man's brother. Does he work with you, as well?"

"No. But he is always happy to help... in exchange of a generous tip, or course. His wife doesn't like me much, though."

'I wonder why', I thought, sighing, and I took a look around me. Not much to see, in fact: only the narrow bed, a side table, the small fireplace and the armchair. I took my coat off, thinking about all the madness that had surrounded me those last days, and turning again towards the root of my problems; who, seemingly oblivious to my concerns, was lying down on the armchair with his head back, throwing smoke rings to the ceiling.

A knock on the door made me jump. I turned and opened it: another young man, barely older than Wiggins junior, stepped in the room with his cap on his hands. Sherlock nodded at him.

"Wilson. I see that Wiggins got my note, but I didn't expect you."

"Sorry, sir", mumbled the kid. He looked much nervous than the cheeky Wiggins. "Wiggins won't come, he thinks he is being tailed, sir."

Sherlock raised an eyebrow.

"By who?"

The boy shook his head.

"He doesn't know, sir. Or haven't told me. So I will bring the reports, sir. "

"Alright, where are them?"

The boy blushed.

"Sir... Do you mind if the reports are... oral? I'm not very good at writing."

Sherlock sighed and signalled the boy to go ahead.

"Mr. Howard has gone to his country cottage, and his maid has told us he is going to be there for a couple of days. Wiggins has sent William H. to keep an eye on him."

"Perfect. And what about Johnson?"

"Mr. Johnson has had dinner at our club, played cards until eleven, and then he's gone home. Wiggins is keeping watch there. When I parted, the lights were already off."

"OK, then. Tell Wiggins he doesn't need to send more reports until the morning, or until there's some movement. Got it?"

"Yes, sir!"

The boy put his cap on and practically ran out of the house. I closed the door after him and turned to Sherlock, who was stretching on the armchair and smiling wickedly to me.

"Come here", he whispered.

How could I refuse? I had been thinking about it the whole day. I smiled back and sat on the arm of his armchair, my hand instantly going to grab the back of his head. When my lips touched his, he hummed and stubbed out his cigarette on the ashtray at the side table. His arms closed around me, softly at first, but when the kiss deepened he pulled me until I was sitting on top of him. His mouth started to explore downwards, and soon I felt him nip over my carotid. My breathing was already ragged. I closed my eyes, lifting my chin to give him better access to my neck, but after some delicious minutes my lust-clouded mind remembered where we were.

"Sherlock. Is it alright? Are you sure we aren't going to be overheard, or something?"

He raised his head from my neck, frowning.

"We will try to be silent, then", he said.

I sat up and went to make sure the door was well closed.

"There's a chair out in the corridor, John. Take it and use it to block the door handle."

I did so. I felt better knowing that we wouldn't be disturbed. Sherlock, meanwhile, started to undress. I caught his wrists, smiling, and shoved him over the bed. He raised a questioning eyebrow, but I giggled and kissed his puzzled face. In some moment of that crazy day, I had made a decision, one that he would like. But, as I still hadn't told anything to Sherlock, I could enjoy teasing him a little bit. I pinned his wrists with one of my hands, and finished unbuttoning his shirt with the other. The look in his face had no price: he was still frowning, obviously frustrated of finding himself again in the same position, unable even to kiss my mouth. He struggled to move and I applied a tad more of force into his wrists, smiling.

"Oh, look who's the smug bastard now...", he whispered, annoyed. "Do you like this, don't you? Having me trapped."

"You have no idea", I mumbled to his shoulder, biting lightly.

"It turns you on being in charge, for once", he added. But his voice went out in a breathless gasp. My free hand roamed across his chest, pinching one of his little pink nipples; his body jerked and tensed. I teased the nub lightly, with two fingers, until it was hard and protruding. "You like to dominate me, because you think that, apart from sex, you are always following my lead, and it makes you feel uncomfortable."

"Only a bit", I whispered under his armpit, caressing his biceps with my tongue. I wondered if there was any bit of him left that was still available while pinning his arms over his head.

"This is why you love fucking me. Penetrating my body gives you a sense of power, isn't it? When your cock is inside me, you feel that you own me, that I am yours to make what you wish..."

"Oh, shut up!", I said kissing his mouth.

Because Sherlock was right, of course, right as always, and it was annoying, but it was also a turn on. Time to show my cards, then. I left Sherlock's wrists and stood up to take my clothes off. He didn't move, his eyes following my every movement. I would dare to say that he was even holding his breath. When my underwear had followed my shirt, vest and trousers, I looked at him again and went to search his coat's pockets.

"On the right, the inner one", he mumbled, voice hoarse with lust.

I took the lubricant out and placed it on the side table. He still hadn't moved, his hands relaxed both sides of his head, mouth half open and red, and trousers unbuttoned but on, his erection clearly outlined under the fabric.

"I see I am not the only one who was enjoying having you pinned and still", I smirked. I left my fingers follow the silhouette of Sherlock's cock. He pressed his lips tight. "You know, we can keep on doing like this... or we can do what you asked me yesterday."

Realization made his eyes shine suddenly. I grinned and pulled his trousers and pants down; he sat up at last and helped me, and between both of us he was barefoot and naked in a second. He pressed himself on top of me, then, and began to kiss me again, with open-mouthed wet kisses that left me trembling and moaning. He raised his face a moment, seemingly remembering something.

"You have no experience with this", he said. I nodded. "Are you sure? I don't want to coerce you."

"You hadn't done it before we met, either", I answered. "It's fine. But Sherlock?"

He emerged again from my neck.

"Have you ever done this bit?"

I wasn't as reassured as I would have wished, to be honest. I was careful with Sherlock our first time, and it had been a painful experience for him all the same. Now we had the medical lubricant, sure; and in fact all the lust in the world wouldn't convince me to do it otherwise, but I was still considering "plan B" in case of lack of experience on Sherlock's part.

He avoided my eyes.

"Does it matter?"

"Mmmm, yes, sorry, Sherlock, but I have to know. Any jealousy problem, I swear, I only want to be practical and make sure this is going to be pleasurable for both of us."

"Well, in that case..." He was lapping my navel, but then stopped, sighed, and rested his face on top of my stomach. "No. I don't have any experience in penetrative sex, apart from what we have already done."

"Sherlock, how old are you?" He tensed and attempted to move away. I soothed him, stroking his shoulders. "Shush, only joking... Don't worry, I don't care, it's only a bit shocking. Honestly, Sherlock, who would think of that, after seeing you always surrounded of beauties in all those parties and charity events?"

"That's... my public face, it doesn't mean anything. My brother's doing, mostly. Does it put you off?"

"What? Your lack of experience or the feminine companies?". He glared at me, frowning. "No, none of them. You are with me now, and I feel incredibly lucky for it. And for the lack of experience, let's work on that, would you?"

I felt him smile against my skin. He rubbed his face over my belly button, making me giggle, and kissed a path downwards again. I held my breath when he arrived over my member, but then he moved towards my groins, licking them and pushing his tongue inside all the creases of my skin. I opened my legs wide, amazingly aroused. Sherlock kissed the inside of my thighs and, at last, pecked on the tip of my cock. I moaned, until I remembered we were supposed to be quiet, and then I resorted to bit my lips to avoid further embarrassing sounds. Sherlock was in his element now, that bit was clear: his movements were more secure and skilled. He kissed my member lightly first, from the tip to the base and then back again. The kisses soon became licks, and started to alternate sucking the head with laps to my balls. I let my hand run through his curls, trying not to pull, and bit my other hand to keep quiet. Then he grabbed the base of my erection firmly and started to pull, in rhythm with the sucking of my head. And just when I thought it was beginning to be too much, his head lowered and took almost all my cock inside his wet mouth, sucking in earnest. I moaned, unable to stop it, feeling my hips moving on their own accord and my hand tensing on his head, pushing and pulling...

"Sherlock, stop!"

He did it at once, releasing my member and breathing deeply. I kept on stroking his hair, drinking in the sight of his face, blushed, his lovely mouth parted, still inviting. I held his arms and pulled him again on top on me, kissing his lips, licking my own taste from his mouth. He sighed and reached for the lubricant. I felt confident of this part, so I simply opened my legs as much as I could, flexing my knees, and observed Sherlock while he coated his fingers with the slippery product. He kneeled between my legs with care, looking to his goal pale and serious. I reached and stroked his thigh, smiling with confidence. After a moment of hesitance, he moved forward and started to caress my hole with one wet finger. It wasn't bad; a curious sensation, perhaps. Then he introduced the first phalange of his finger in a fast shove, and my lower body jumped.

"Sorry, it was too sudden", whispered Sherlock, biting his lip.

"No, it's alright. Just... don't move it, wait a moment."

My body was trying to fight the intrusion: this hole was used to get things out, not in, and the feeling was incredibly strange. After some seconds, I nodded and Sherlock started to move his finger inside of me. It was only a bit uncomfortable, but it didn't hurt, so I felt relieved. Then he shoved the finger deeply inside, until the knuckle, and something felt... wrong. It was pleasurable, but it still felt wrong. It was like scratching a mosquito bit: there was pleasure, but at the same time a part of my body was screaming: "Stop it right now! This is wrong, this is not the right kind of pleasure, it's going to hurt, stop!". I might have been wriggling, because Sherlock retired his finger with care, with an alarmed look on his face.

"I am hurting you".

"No, it's only strange, and uncomfortable, but it doesn't hurt. Keep on doing it, Sherlock, please."

"Should I try with two fingers already?"

I hesitated.

"Why not. Come on! Wait, perhaps a bit more of lubricant?"

And he put a squirt of jelly on his fingers and leaned to kiss me.

"Mmmmmm... Nice...", I mumbled, trapping his mouth for a while more. Perhaps it would be easier with his mouth against mine, perhaps this way my body would feel it like actual sex, instead of an intrusion.

Sherlock kept on kissing me while two of his fingers now worked their way inside of me. Again, a bit uncomfortable, but I was beginning to accommodate, and my body at last stopped to try to push the foreign object out. Sherlock sat up and observed what he was doing, lips parted with obvious arouse.

"How do I know if you are ready?"

I sighed.

"I'm not an expert, Sherlock... How do you feel it? Has it dilated?"

He moved his fingers in circles inside me. A little shot of pleasure ran up my spine and down my cock. Well, that was new.

"Can you try to find my prostate?"

He frowned, and started exploring inside me. I began to regret asking, it was uncomfortable again, as if he was rubbing my bones under the skin, but then he found it, and my hips jumped all of a sudden.

"Oh my God, Sherlock!"

"Good?"

"Very. Sherlock, come on, I want to feel you now".

He took his fingers out carefully and froze, looking alternatively to my face and my hole. He looked incredibly aroused and, at the same time, uncertain of what to do next. I giggled and shook my head; plan B, then. I sat up and stood, taking Sherlock's hand. I made him sit with his back on the bed headboard, and passed him the lubricant. He applied a good amount of it on his erected length, and then he flexed his legs and pulled me until I sat straddling him. He held me tight, kissing me deeply, and after a delightful moment I took his erection and manoeuvred it to my entrance, holding it until I felt the head inside, pressing against the walls of my anus. I kept on holding it with one hand, and I balanced myself on Sherlock's shoulder with the other. Sherlock wet mouth was still on mine, as his eyes didn't leave my face a single moment. I concentrated on that, on Sherlock amazing look on those moments, and shoved myself down on his member. I was out of breath for what seemed minutes; Sherlock had said it was intense, and he wasn't kidding. I felt impaled, full, as if at any moment his cock was going to break through my kidneys. I moved my hips onwards, and Sherlock and I moaned in unison, his breath caressing my lips. He fought to keep his eyes open, but when I started to move, trying to find a rhythm, he lost the battle and closed his eyes, resting his forehead against my shoulder, moaning lightly. I bit my lower lip as my grunts became louder, and shushed Sherlock. We weren't loud, in fact, but the bed was another thing: with every shove of my hips, it creaked and rustled, and at first I tried to be careful and slow, but soon the feeling of Sherlock inside of me started to be too much, and the look on his face was almost enough to push me over the edge. I held the headboard, one hand each side of Sherlock's head, and quickened the rhythm, burying his body inside mine as deep as possible, every time feeling his length filling me, feeling every twitch and every little spasm of his cock.

"Sherlock!", I asked, unable to say more.

Fortunately, he took the hint and went to grab my throbbing erection, pulling it hard and firmly. And suddenly I was already there, in an unexpected wave of pleasure exploding at the same time on my cock and my hole. I felt Sherlock shoving up hard while my orgasm lasted, and I hope, I really hope because I can't be sure, that I managed to avoid shouting. Sherlock gasped and his body turned limp. We held tight into each other, afraid of falling if we let go, and only after what felt like an eternity I moved to try finding something to clean us. Sherlock let himself drop flat on the bed and signalled his coat; I took a handkerchief from one of the pockets and cleaned my stomach and my thighs. When I turned, Sherlock looked asleep. Smiling with affection, I cleaned him, too, and tucked the handkerchief again.

"Make me room, or I will have to actually sleep on the armchair", I told, nudging him on his side.

He grunted, but started to move lazily towards the wall. All of a sudden, a baby cry broke the silence of the night, and my blood froze when I realized that the cries came from the house we were in.

"Sherlock", I hissed, settling on the bed close to him. "Is there a child on this house?"

He grunted, and grabbed my waist until our bodies were stuck.

"A murderer, a professional murderer, is following our steps, and you place us precisely on a family house? The man doesn't even work for you, and you are putting his wife and baby in danger?"

Sherlock seemed to process it.

"You are angry."

"Yes, obviously!"

"Why? I assure you the money will be very well received."

"That's... not very right on Wiggins' brother, in fact, but perhaps he is not aware of the kind of danger you are putting his family through tonight."

"He knows perfectly well", Sherlock puffed, "the kinds of business his brother and I pursue, John, don't be so..."

"...Candid, yes, we agreed on that. But it's still irresponsible on your part, it's... I don't know how to explain it to you if you don't get it, honestly, but it's wrong, it's... not good."

Sherlock frowned, staring at me.

"Do you want us to go out now, try to find another place to sleep?", he asked at last.

"No, not now... It's late. But we must look for another place first thing in the morning, we can't stay here. Alright?"

He nodded. I bet he still doesn't get it, even now. But for that night, my body and my mind had had enough novelties and stress, and I wasn't going anywhere.


	11. Chapter 11

I opened an eye and stretched an arm lazily. The other side of the pillow was warm, and a smile reached my lips as I thought: 'Sherlock'. I opened both eyes, quite awake all of a sudden, looking for him. And there he was, sitting on the armchair with his arms around his bony knees, and the ashtray on balance on top of them. The amount of stubs and the smoke huddled on the ceiling told me that Sherlock had been awake for some time now.

I patted the bed by my side.

"Come here", I mumbled, feeling lazy and warm. "It's still dawning".

"I'm thinking", he grunted, his eyes fixed on the smoky ceiling.

I sighed and got up. I needed to go to the toilet, so I put my clothes on and asked him where it was. I came back in a minute, and he had moved to the window, still as a marble statue, looking to the desert street. He only wore his underwear, and I could see goosebumps on his arms. I embraced him from behind, sticking my chest to his cold back and trying to infuse a bit of warm into his upper limbs. I laid one kiss on his cheek, and he hummed, content, and tangled his hands with mine, his eyes still fixed on the horizon: chimneys, lines of terraced houses and the tenuous mist of morning.

"Are you alright?", he asked after a long silence. "Was last night as painful as you imagined?"

"No, in fact quite the contrary", I chuckled. I could only feel happy about last night; happy and eager to try it again. But Sherlock had other things in mind that morning, that bit was clear. After a while, when I was wondering where his mind had gone after thinking of me, he surprised me saying:

"So you are not coming back to Scotland Yard after your suspension."

"No. I can't. I mean, I know that most of them are still good people working to keep the peace in the city, nice guys fighting crime like we have always done. But I can't come back to the Department and work with Lestrade and Donovan; I wouldn't be able to trust them as before."

Sherlock simply nodded and remained silent.

"And you?", I dared to ask at last. "What are you going to do when all of this finishes?"

"What do you mean?" He released my hands and turned to look at me. "John, this is not one of those things of 'I'll show you mine if you show me yours'". He walked away from me, frowning, and started to pace the small room. "What do you want me to do? Leave my organization? Oh, yes, because you are John Watson the Rightful, and of course you have to make an honest man of me!"

"Sherlock, that's not fair! I haven't asked you anything at all, but come on! Is this what you want to do with your life? Assaulting houses, kidnapping people, organizing illegal gambling, hiding in honest families' houses and running away from the police all your life?"

He grunted and let himself drop dramatically on the bed.

"And what do you suggest, John? That I come back to university? Oh, yes, because I was doing wonderfully there…"

"Well, you are brilliant, I'm sure you could do that", I said, sitting next to him. "What did you study?"

He sighed.

"My brother went for Politics, so my father made me start Law. After a year of complete disaster, where basically I started partying and taking too much cocaine, my father allowed me to change to Chemicals, my major of preference."

"OK. And then? Wasn't it good?"

I placed the bedspread on top of his neglected body as he kept glancing the ceiling, and then I lay down next to him, petting his hair.

"At first, yes. But soon I realized that the level was so basic, the teachers so predictable and uninteresting, and my colleagues so idiotic… that I got bored and came back to the parties. Mycroft says that at least I was useful making connections: most of the high society people I currently see during the social season are acquaintances from those years. The dullness was only increasing with each semester, and the year the War started I was sacked for distilling and selling illegal substances at the uni lab". I giggled, and his eyes found mine and turned warmer. "After that, my father decided that enough was enough, and he didn't allow me to come back the next term. Instead of that, he took me to Switzerland, far from the War". He sighed again and avoided my eyes. "There, now you know it all: I'm completely useless. I can't have an honest job, and you can't join my organization. If my men had a hint of what happens between us… there would be the very real possibility of both of us ending our days prematurely as fish food at the bottom of the Thames". He looked again at me, a sad smile ghosting over his lips. "So what are you going to do, John Watson?"

I licked my lips, concerned.

"I still can look for a job at a hospital. I'm not good as a surgeon anymore, but I still can attend flues and stomach virus."

"You could open a private practice; I would lend you the money."

"Yeah, we could be partners. God, no! I can imagine it, all the injured gangsters hiding at my clinic every time one caught a police bullet! Definitely not!"

Sherlock looked a bit disappointed, but my mind was set: I didn't want anything to do with crime or criminals of any kind. Sherlock was… an exception, a touch of madness. A bang on the door made us jump; we sat up at once while he answered with a 'come in!'. Wilson's head appeared in the door frame, cautiously.

"Good morning, sirs. Are you awake?"

"Yes, yes, come in, please! So, tell me, Wilson, who has tried to break into Baker Street?"

I turned to look at him, startled, and then again to the young gangster.

"Well, Mr. Holmes, you would never guess… Mrs. Hudson found Willy MacDonald in your parlour an hour ago, lying flat and knocked down!"

Sherlock grinned.

"My old trap never fails… A pity that you haven't had the chance to see it work, John, but it can't be helped now. So MacDonald Junior, eh? That's interesting. After that, I almost don't need your reports, Wilson. Well, yes! In fact, yes. I need to know when Johnson leaves his house. He usually arrives to the club at ten in the morning, but I would prefer to know it as soon as he leaves."

"Of course, Mr. Holmes. I left Jimmy there, but only the maid was awake when I came here, sir. I'll come back and let you know when he leaves, sir."

"Any other news?"

"No, sir, the night has been quiet."

Sherlock dismissed Wilson with a couple of obscure indications, and a note for Mrs. Hudson. The boy left and my friend turned to look at me with a triumphant gaze illuminating his face.

"We got him, John! I knew they were going to try to finish it tonight; time plays against them."

"So MacDonald works for Johnson, then?"

"Of course, he has been his right hand for years. My brother will be desolated; he really appreciates that lad… Come on, John! I know a little café that opens at sunrise and makes delicious pancakes; we have time to have a decent breakfast before going into action."

* * *

The pancakes were delicious, indeed, and Sherlock surprised me eating his share and then stealing from my plate, playful. The owner in person attended our table and made sure Sherlock didn't wait for anything. He hinted at himself being in debt with my friend; I was delighted with Sherlock's change of mood, from the moody and self-deprecating self of early morning to that polite and good-humoured breakfast, so I didn't dare to ask for the nature of that "debt", and focused on our excellent meal.

Wilson appeared when we were finishing and sat at our table, his gaze sweeping over the remains of our pancakes with gluttony. He placed a parcel on top of the table.

"Excellent, Wilson! You never disappoint me! Ask for a pancake if you wish, you have earned it", and he turned to call the waiter and ask for another pancake and another cup of tea.

"…And what is this?", I asked, pointing to the parcel.

"This? Oh, yes, John, would you mind to take it to the men's toilet and put it on?"

"Put what on?"

Sherlock sighed, took the parcel and placed it in my arms. I looked down, slightly annoyed. Again, I had no idea of what that was all about. But again I followed Sherlock's directions, wondering if the rest of my life would be like that, following the lead of that madman, danger after danger. Once inside the loo, I tore open the paper and unwrapped a navy blue suit. 'OK, then', I thought, and changed my clothes to a white crispy shirt, navy blue suit and dark blue tie. Then I noticed the logo on the right chest pocket: LPC. I was wearing the uniform of the London Power Company, what the hell?

"Sherlock", I said when I emerged from the toilet, "I really hope there's a reason behind this."

"The disguise? Of course. Sit down and finish your tea, John; Wilson has just informed me that we still have half an hour until the cook goes to the market. Then we will find Johnson's house with only the butler and the maid at home. Most convenient, isn't it?"

"So we are going to Johnson's house?", I asked, sitting down again and feeling a bit stupid with my disguise.

"Of course. We need evidence against Johnson. I will obtain them; remember that sneaking into other's houses and get documents is my speciality. But I need a distraction, and that will be you, John. Wilson, what about the other thing I asked you to bring?"

The boy slicked his fingers clean and extracted a brown envelope from his pocket.

"Here it is, Mister Holmes."

Sherlock gave it to me; unsurprisingly, it was the credentials of a John Hopkinson, inspector of the London Power Company. I sighed. How was I going to explain Lestrade any evidence that we would manage to extract from that man's house?

But, of course, half an hour later Mr. John Hopkinson, Official Inspector of the LPC, was ringing at the door of Mr. Carl Johnson, at 14 Middle Temple Lane, at spitting distance from the honourable and posh Fleet Street.

"Good morning", I said to the inquiring butler who opened the door, placing the credential in front of his face. "I am inspecting this area because some of the neighbours are complaining about the quality of the electric power provision they are receiving."

"We haven't had any problem with our lights", he answered, but fortunately for me he seemed a bit concerned.

"Have you noticed any light flickering? Loosing intensity after some minutes?"

"Well… I am not sure. Perhaps."

I stepped in, pocketing the credential.

"That's what I thought, yes. I am to inspect every electric light in the house, and make sure each one is in perfect state of work. We can't allow any abnormality, sir; you don't know how easy it is to get a fire due to frayed wires".

The man opened his eyes wide and stepped aside to let me enter the house. Ah, the power of credentials!

The next better part of an hour, I was looking raptly at every lamp and appliance owned by the Johnson's household, followed closely first by the butler, and after a while also by the maid, who looked very worried when she heard the words 'fire' and 'electricity' on the same sentence. I tried to chit-chat with them all the time, to cover up the noises Sherlock might make on the upper floor. Once we were outside the door of Johnson's office, I coughed loudly, grabbing the frame. I pushed a bit the wooden door, expecting my friend to be gone. I froze at once when I _heard_ him: the damned man was _humming_ while he worked on the strongbox! I slammed the door closed. The butler and the maid were staring at me, with a question on their eyes.

"My credential!", I exclaimed. "It's not inside my pocket; I think it has fallen down before, when I showed it to you at the hall". The butler raised an eyebrow, but the maid hurried down the stairs to look for it. I made a show of looking down in her direction.

"I can't find anything, Mr. Hopkinson!", shouted the maid downstairs.

The butler dropped his suspicious look, rolled his eyes and sighed.

"This girl wouldn't find water at the sea. Excuse me, sir, I'll take a look myself."

And he ran downstairs. I turned quickly to the office's door and pushed it open. Sherlock peeped from behind the curtains, smiling and winking at me. Oh, God, the two of us were going to finish the day at Scotland Yard, and not exactly making a friendly visit to my colleagues. I heard steps climbing the stair and I coughed again. Sherlock made himself invisible.

"Oh, look, I've found it! Sorry to bother you, but you know how these things are: I have to pay a fine to the company if I lose the credential, you know?"

Both of them look sympathetically at me: yes, they knew about demanding bosses as well (and who didn't?). I opened the office and examined all the lamps in the room, talking all the time about some nonsense I could come up with. Their eyes were focused on me; we stepped out of the office and made our way through the house. Some minutes later I thought I heard a "Thoump!", but my escort didn't seem to notice, so I started to feel so relieved that I giggled with my own jokes; when I finally parted from the house, the butler and the maid were laughing loudly with me, and I even told them to meet at the corner's pub some night.

Sherlock met me outside, his wide smile competing with mine. He grabbed my arm and pulled me quickly away until we were hidden on a narrow staircase that connected the street with the riverside.

"We have him, John!", he exclaimed, excited, taking a paper out his coat. "Look! I've found a letter from Alexander Warren. I suppose you are aware of who is him and what does it imply..."

I nodded: Alexander Warren was the boss of the second crime organisation in London, the direct competitor of the Holmes brothers.

"And there is something of interest on the letter, Sherlock? Will it be enough?"

"Well, there are mention of figures already paid by Warren", he answered with his nose on the letter. "Enough evidence for me."

"I can foresee some objections that a good lawyer can come up with…", I replied. "He might say that the letter is forged, for once."

Sherlock stared at me with a crooked grin.

"You are not going to send the letter to Lestrade, isn't it?", I realised suddenly. "God, how can I be so stupid? No, please, don't answer me: innocent, candid John, yes."

I felt so angry. It was Sherlock, what was I thinking about? Since when did Sherlock mind about law, or proper doing? But then he was looking at me, completely confused, hands hanging loose each side of his body, and his eyes seemed so _sad_.

"What?", I asked, curtly.

"You know how I am, John, don't take it like something personal. I will make a copy of the letter and send the original to Lestrade. Will it be better?"

"And what is going to happen to Johnson?"

He shrugged and avoided my eyes, pocketing the letter inside his coat.

"He's a traitor, John. And you are aware of his police report: murders, robberies, arson, all the pack. Why do you worry? I even doubt you have met him in person."

"And what about his family? His household? Those nice people I was laughing with a while ago? They will be unemployed thanks to you, and it's not a good time to be unemployed right now, you know?"

"You have only met them for fifty minutes! Honestly, John, I thought you would be happier to know that we have caught them, that I'm not going to prison and nobody will try to murder you."

I sighed loudly, taking his face between my hands and making eye contact.

"I am a doctor and a cop: I have sworn twice to protect people. I might be candid, but I'm not going to help you any more with anything that implies breaking laws. If you want to take someone to Court, I'm your man. For the rest... I love you, but don't count on me. In fact, make sure I don't realise of what you are doing. Is it clear?"

He leaned his face downwards and captured my mouth in a hungry kiss. But he quickly disengaged and turned to the stairs, excited as a child again:

"Completely clear! Now, if you please, we have to meet Wilson as soon as possible: there's a copy of a letter to be done, and a criminal to stop!"

And he started to run downstairs, crossing a small public garden and turning right, following the stone fence along the riverside. I was going to follow him, grinning and shaking my head, when suddenly my sight turned black and I felt the ground rising to quickly to meet my face.


	12. Chapter 12

When I regained consciousness again, my ears were buzzing and my head hurt as hell. I tried to move and, unsurprisingly, I found my arms and feet tied down, and a cloth inside my mouth.

"Please, Doctor Watson... May I call you Doctor Watson now, or do you prefer to keep your treatment as Sergeant Watson? As you and me both are aware that you have been awake for some minutes, you might wish to open your eyes..."

I knew that voice. Oh, yes. So the moment I have been dreading since my relationship with Sherlock started was already there. Well, then. I opened my eyes.

I was sitting in a dark room, with a solitary and naked bulb hanging from the ceiling, exactly above me. I blinked twice. Furniture: two chairs, one for me, and one for Mycroft Holmes, who was sitting in front of me. Windows: none to be seen. Doors: one, on my right, ten feet from me. I started to discard different ways of freeing myself from that room. I was starting to run out of ideas, when suddenly the door slammed open. The frame was occupied by two armed men... and Sherlock.

My friend was shaking with rage, but I saw how he struggled to rein over it and tried to appear calm.

"My dear Sherlock, you are late!", exclaimed my kidnapper, amused. "I thought you would come sooner to say goodbye to your friend."

Sherlock closed the door behind him with a loud slam; the guardians stayed outside the room.

"If this is one of your practical jokes", said Sherlock through clenched teeth, "let me say that you have a twisted sense of humour."

Mycroft's tight smile disappeared. He didn't look at all like Sherlock: both were tall and slim, and had an aristocratic air in their behaviour, in their movements and accents, but the similarities ended there. Mycroft Holmes was older than Sherlock, and his fair hair was starting to recede. His eyes were misty grey, the same colour that Sherlock's had sometimes, but they were colder than my friend's; and his mouth was thin instead of the full lips that I loved.

"What were you expecting, Sherlock? My congratulations? I have already heard rumours! Amongst our men! This is not a moment when we can afford to be seen as weak, and you know it perfectly well!" After that outburst, he seemed to calm down a bit, staring at Sherlock disapprovingly. His brother was silent, hands curled, and didn't look at me. "I knew that this was going to happen since that summer at our country house, when I caught you with that stupid little Lord, whatwashisname?"

"Doesn't matter now", Sherlock hurried to answer, shooting me a quick glance from the corner of his eye. "I told you it wasn't important, and I stopped it."

"Yes, I know. But this was meant to happen. You should have married then, Sherlock, I warned you! I hope you reconsider the question now; in fact there are some interesting candidates that would be useful for our family... A title would fit so lovely with our name..."

Sherlock started to pace the room.

"I told you that I will never marry, Mycroft; if you want a title you will have to manage to get one yourself."

"Well, then. Do you want a minute alone to say goodbye? My men don't have all day."

"You are not going to kill him!"

"You don't leave me any other option, Sherlock! If I leave him alive, you and he are dead man walking. As soon as the rumour spread... and you know it will... well, accidents happen. Our men are loyal, but I don't want to test their level of loyalty with this. And Johnson's supporters will take the chance to claim revenge; this will be simply too easy for them. We. Can't. Spare. Him."

"I wouldn't have that letter against Johnson without his assistance, Mycroft! He's loyal, he can be my new right hand man; nobody has to know anything else about him: rumours can be fought."

Mycroft sighed loudly.

"I'm tired of repeating myself: rumours will be fought, yes. As soon as he is dead, your reputation will be clean again. We are cleaning up our ranks, so everybody will think that it's the right thing to do. And don't make me laugh pretending that John 'Honest' Watson would join us; it's the most ridculous idea I've ever heard. I'm really sorry, brother, I wish things were different. Perhaps in the future, but not now."

Sherlock looked at me then, and it was one of his intense gazes, the ones that pierced you and read your body and your soul and left you naked and defenceless. I still felt too shocked to say anything; I wasn't afraid of death, I had been so many times at a touching distance that it had become an almost familiar presence for me. But I wanted to see the end of all of this. And I wanted to ascertain Sherlock's level of implication with me. After a long silence, with his eyes still fixed on mine, he whispered:

"I am going to keep him, Mycroft, don't matter the consequences. I'll leave the organisation; I'll leave London if it's necessary."

"You leaving the organisation wouldn't make any difference, Sherlock. You two would be dead in less than a month. I'm not going to allow that, I promised mummy that I would keep you safe and sound."

Sherlock turned again towards his brother, frowning and huffing.

"What do you suggest, then?"

"Will you and your doctor comply with what I decide?"

Sherlock hesitated. I nodded, making a humming sound. My friend looked at me as if he had forgotten I was there, startled. I felt relieved, at last seeing an end, and one that didn't imply my death or Sherlock's.

"Sherlock? I need your word", asked Mycroft.

He nodded, torn between defeated and hopeful.

"Alright, this is my plan: you two will go to Switzerland. You know that mummy needs help to run the hotel since our father died; she's starting to be too elderly to do that job on her own. I'm sure she will appreciate your going there. She misses you a lot, how many years have passed since last time you went to Reichenbach?"

Sherlock grunted and lowered his eyes, as if his shoes were the most interesting thing in the world. But I already knew him enough to tell that he was secretly pleased, even when he didn't want to show it in front of his brother. He approached me and untied me. Mycroft opened the door and whispered a long string of orders to his men, while I stood up and supressed the urge to hug Sherlock. He looked at me with the same contained emotion that I'm sure was painted on my face, and then simply turned away with a twirl of his coat and left the room with fast strides, corridor away. I hurried to follow him, glad to abandon that grim room. When I passed in front of Mycroft Holmes, though, I stopped to thank him.

"Why are you thanking me?"

He didn't seem surprised, in fact. I started to answer all the same, but he raised a hand to stop me.

"Don't. You do think that I have provided a way out, don't you? Well, I have spared your life, this is true. But, what do you think is going to happen when Sherlock gets bored of the life in a little village in Switzerland? The Reichenbach Falls were once included in most of the _Grand Tours_ of the British, but times are changing… Sherlock knows perfectly well that this way out is, in fact, a punishment. Good luck with that, Doctor Watson."

I clenched my hands and followed Sherlock without a word.

* * *

_ONE YEAR LATER_

The door at Sherlock's office opened slowly and the head of his secretary poked from behind.

"Mister Holmes, you've got a visit", said the young man in English, but with a strong German accent. Sherlock barely raised his eyes from his notebook. "Inspector Geißler and Inspector Kurzmann."

Sherlock nodded and the two policemen stepped in the small but elegant office. He kept on writing into his notebook, consulting his books once on a while, as the Inspectors sat down on the leather armchairs in front of his desk. Geißler looked concerned and serious, as always; Kurzmann, on the other hand, seemed extraordinarily annoyed. Sherlock knew well that the latter didn´t trust him, but he usually didn't seem so belligerent, so something related to Sherlock had happened since the last time the policemen had consulted him. Obvious.

"Holmes, we need your insight in a case", said Geißler, in his fast and careful German. "A girl has appeared this morning, dead. Her room was closed, the key was inside the door; and the bedroom is on a third floor. All the evidence points to a suicide, but her mother disagrees and has asked for a formal investigation."

"And you have accepted, of course," said Sherlock, in German as well, "because said mother is a distant relative of yours, or a close neighbour". Inspector Geißler nodded. "I'm sorry, Inspectors, but as you can see, I'm burdened with work: it's almost the end of the term and we are expecting a huge group of students from Cambridge. These young men have to be entertained, you know, so I don´t think I will be available to help you with that poor girl…"

"Oh, come on, Holmes!", exploded Kurzmann at last, his wide face red and contracted. "I have investigated you, and this morning I had a long phone call from Scotland Yard. Does the name Lestrade sound familiar to you? Because he had a lot of things to tell about you…"

"I was never found guilty of any charge, I'm sure he had remembered to tell you… It's barely my fault that the Inspectors from Scotland Yard have too much free time to gossip around."

Geißler hurried to repair his colleague's harsh words.

"We are not here to discuss petty details, especially if they are old and even set in another country… I'm sure this case will be of your interest, Mister Holmes. There are some details about the girl's body that you will find most interesting. I assure you they are quite unusual."

Sherlock closed his notebook and smiled at them.

"Well, then, give my secretary the address and I will try to drop by when I have a moment."

Geißler gleamed and stood up to shake Sherlock's hand. Next to him, Kurzmann kept frowning and said nothing.

* * *

Mrs. Barker squeezed my arm on her way out, her other hand grabbing a flowery and huge handbag.

"You don't know how grateful I am to have found you, Doctor Watson", she said. "My sister and I come to Switzerland every year since she became widowed; her doctor at Edinburgh suggested the Reichenbach Falls because of its clean air and the beautiful walks that we can take here. But I was very concerned about finding the right doctor, because these Swiss people are nice and charming, but of course I prefer to put my health in the hands of a British doctor..."

I smiled and thanked her, sending my regards for her sister. As soon as I was alone again, my telephone rang. I smiled: it could only be one person.

"Sherlock?", I answered.

"How do you know it's me?", he sounded almost annoyed.

"You are the only one who phones me; the patients prefer to pop in". My smile turned wider in pride.

"True. Pack your things for a night off; we are going to Interlaken; I'm almost sure that we will pass the night there."

"Hold on, Sherlock, I still have one patient to see…"

"Grave?"

"I don't know; I still haven't seen him!"

"This girl is _dead_; that sure exceeds the possible gravity of your patient, don't you think? I'll see you at the station in one hour."

"But Sherlock…!"

Unsurprisingly, he had already hung up. I shook my head and laughed. Sherlock. I was going to follow that crazy bastard until the end of time. But if there were better lives to be lived, I couldn't imagine any.

* * *

**...And here it ends Gangsters in London. I really hope that you have liked this AU; for me it has been truly fun and rewarding to write.**

**Thank you again to Possessmemore: without her help and encouragement, none of my fics would have been written.**  
**And thank you, of course, to everyone who has found the time to leave kudos, comments or simply read the full story!**

**A little note about the timeline: when World War I began, in 1914, Sherlock was 19, on his second year at Oxford, and John was 23, a young unexperienced Doctor, fresh from Uni. So when this story starts, in 1930, Sherlock is 35 years old and John 39; more or less like on series 2 of the show.**


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